


Ignis Aurum Probat

by writing_addict



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga, How to Train Your Dragon (Movies)
Genre: (duh), A lot - Freeform, Action/Adventure, Alphonse Elric Is Done With This Shit, Alternate Universe - How to Train Your Dragon Fusion, BAMF Edward Elric, BAMF Roy Mustang, BAMF Winry Rockbell, Dragon Riders, Dragons, Edward Elric Swears, Enemies to Friends, Epic Battles, Epic Friendship, F/M, Fire Tests Gold, Flying, Forbidden Friendship, Gen, How to Train Your Dragon References, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Multi, Parental Roy Mustang, Platonic Soulmates, Psychic Bond, Screw Destiny, Telepathy, Vikings, alphonse as himself, alternate title: night fury dad adopts weird angry viking runt, blacksmiths, ed as hiccup, how could i not add platonic soulmates, im a fool in one shoe - hiccup horrendous haddock 3, no update schedule, of sorts, roy as toothless, winry as astrid
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2019-10-29 08:39:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17804735
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writing_addict/pseuds/writing_addict
Summary: Edward Elric is born early into the dead of winter, on an island twelve days North of Hopeless and a few degrees south of Freezing-To-Death. He comes into the world sickly and small--and endlessly defiant, burning with the kind of rage that can shake the foundations of the universe. The gods themselves hear that scream, thatroarof fury and thunder promising to remake the world as they know it, and wonder.Fifteen years later, Ed brings down the Night Fury that's been plaguing his people for generations, stands over it with the perfect opportunity to make the kill...and spares it.And just like that, the Norns begin weaving the fate of a hero.





	1. Breathe Through The Fear

**Author's Note:**

> Title Translation: fire tests gold
> 
> This AU is the same HTTYD story you all know and love, but with a dash of FMA:B to spice it up! If you check out my other works, you'll see that I've written an HTTYD AU for every single one of those, so I obviously had to continue that trend here and...voila! Hope you enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title comes from a quote that (to my knowledge) is from the Throne of Glass series, "Breathe through the fear and walk through the fire." I think it suits Ed pretty well, don't you? Plus, I've drawn a lot of similarities between Ed and the protagonist of that series, Aelin (those two would be disasters if they ever met. the world would not survive) and...well, maybe I'll expound on potential AUs later. For now: DRAGONS

Edward Elric was moving as soon as the fires rose.

He wasn’t the only one, of course. Every Viking on the island of Amestris knew what to do when their greatest enemies struck again, with fire and talons and snapping fangs—the old and young would retreat into the Great Hall, while every able-bodied warrior would set out to guard… _everything._ Houses, food, lives, their foes had taken it all from them for seven generation. _Kept_ taking it, over and over and over, burning down their homes and stealing their livestock even in the dead of an Amestrian winter (which, since they were just a few degrees south of Freezing-To-Death, was deadly even _with_ their food supplies fully stocked). The entire tribe was set in motion every time the word _“RAID!”_ was called, and he was no exception.

Except, of course, for the fact that Ed wasn’t exactly supposed to _be_ outside in the first place.

Really, it wasn’t _his_ fault. Not entirely. Maybe he’d accidentally blown up a house or two trying to get at one of the foes raining hell down on them, or caused the loss of a few sheep and barrels of sheep, but he wasn’t _that_ much of a disaster. It was just—bad luck. Bad luck, and the misfortune of being a runt in a world of Vikings—a runt who couldn’t even outfight his own little brother.

Being sickly and skinny and _small_ in a society where being extra-large with beefy arms and a side of extra guts and glory was the norm was bad enough, but add thinking differently into the mix, pepper in a metal arm and season it with a dash of disaster, and you got…well, Ed. Village pariah, blacksmith’s apprentice, and the only teen on Amestris that wouldn’t be allowed to fight, because his life was a beautiful fucking dream.

Which was unfair. And stupid. And _unfair,_ he thought mutinously, scowling at yet another Viking who snapped at him to _get back inside before you cause_ them _to win this raid, too—_

A hand clamped down on the back of his tunic and lifted him clean into the air, and Ed snarled and spat and struggled for a moment— _stop fucking using my height AGAINST me, you assholes—_ before going still as an all-too familiar voice gritted out, “What are you doing out, Ed—what’s he doing out?” The last half of the question was directed at a group of Vikings that surrounded his captor.

 _Can’t even be bothered to let me speak for myself,_ he thought with a scowl, crossing his arms as he was dangled humiliatingly before an audience of soldiers who shrugged and grumbled in annoyance. _Don’t know why I ever expected anything else._ “I’m going to the fucking _forge,_ okay—Izumi can’t handle all of the weapons needing repairs on her own in a raid like this, you _know_ that, so I’m gonna fucking _help,_ so—so put me _down,_ asshole!” He debated kicking his legs and struggling again, but he’d look even _more_ like some dumb, immature kid, which was probably the least convincing thing in the world.

The warriors were already back to ignoring him—of _course_ they were, why would he expect anything more of the people who pretended he didn’t exist unless they were talking about his latest fuck-up—but the man holding him sighed, setting him back on the ground with surprising gentleness. Ed didn’t let himself think about it, didn’t let himself _care._ He’d done that once—and had been replaced as soon as a _better_ Viking came along. “Then go,” Von Hohenheim, Chief of the island of Amestris, said, almost _wearily._ “And if I see you anywhere near _any_ dragons, Edward, so help me Thor—”

“Yeah, _whatever.”_ He reined in urge to snap at him again, already bounding out of reach. He _was_ going to the forge—but he wasn’t going to stay away from the fight, or from the dragons. Not tonight. Not when he finally had a shot.

_I’m going to kill a dragon tonight._

_I’m going to kill_ the _dragon tonight._

Because it wasn’t other Vikings that raided Amestris. It wasn’t humans—humans, they didn’t need to fear. Humans could be fought fairly, humans had minds to trick and out-strategize and break. No raiders from other tribes crowded their shores, no soldiers from the fabled lands beyond the Archipelago sailed in to attack them. Every tribe was preoccupied with the same enemy striking from the skies, burning down their world night after night, week after week, year after year: the _dragons._

With so many generations spent killing and fighting and killing and fighting and dedicating life after life to destroying the dragons and ending the raids, it made sense that killing a dragon was _everything_ on Amestris. It was what made a child a warrior, a prince into a Chief, a man into a legend—and getting _one kill_ would be his ticket to…to _everything._ To acceptance from the tribe, pride from his father, friendship, even, from the other kids his age. And sure, he might not have been able to swing a hammer or throw an axe ( _yet,_ he reminded himself fiercely), but he had something none of the others put to use (at least, not much): his _mind,_ and his hands (mismatched though they were), and an invention that could bring down the deadliest of them all.

And he _would,_ he promised himself, dodging swords and screams and blasts of fire as he made for the ramshackle blacksmith’s hut in the central square. He’d bring down a dragon tonight, and bring its heart to the chief.

_Then I’ll be worth something to them._

_…To me._

He skidded into the forge, yelping as his teacher immediately set an axe—heavily damaged, what the _hell,_ didn’t any of these goddamn people know how to use a weapon _without_ destroying it? _—_ in his arms, looking altogether too cheerful. “Sharpen that,” Izumi Curtis ordered, barely pausing a moment as she grabbed a broadsword and lifted it effortlessly, setting it under her hammer.

Ed didn’t hesitate to obey, all-too aware of her fierce temper and fiercer skills when it came to the fight. Being the apprentice of someone like _that…_ well, you learned a thing or two about them. He set the edge of the axe to the rolling whetstone, grinning despite himself as sparks flew off of it. Maybe he couldn’t fight in the traditional way, but only Teacher was better in the forge than he was. Incessant illness and inhuman strength and strange, almost inappropriate humor (she’d chopped a dragon’s head off _in front_ of the Aerugoan chief and, when asked who she was, had chirped _“A housewife!”_ with terrifying cheerfulness) and all.

He might have been absolutely terrified of her, if she wasn’t somedays (most days, honestly) the only person who gave a shit about him. Except for Al, but Al…cared _too_ much. He shook his head, flipping the axe in his hand and pressing it to the whetstone, eyes drifting to the canvas-covered contraption in the back. _He’ll be proud of me, though, after tonight. He’ll be glad to point at me and say, “That’s my big brother.” You know, for once._

“Nice of you to join the party, kid! Thought you’d been carried off ages ago.”

And speaking of Izumi’s relentless humor. Ed glanced up from the axe, lifting it from the whetstone and setting it back on the counter before moving toward the great bellows by the heart of the forge, grimacing as he practically jumped on them to get them to move. _Gods-fuckin’-damnit_ … “What, me?” _Trust me, they’ve tried._ “Guess I’m too bitter for them.” He flashed her a grin, praying it dripped general exasperation and irritation and held nothing about his schemes. “Sorry, Teacher, you’re stuck with me for at least another night.”

“My unlucky day, then.” Still, she ruffled his hair as he passed, laughing when he scowled and batted at the soot-stains now covering the top of his head, which would take _for-fucking-ever_ to wash out. He couldn’t really begrudge her for it, though, he thought as he flung open the doors of the stall, Vikings rushing in and setting weapon after weapon on the counter—it was more than any other adult in the village ever did for him.

Sickles, bolas, swords and shields began to pile up in the counter. Ed watched silhouettes swoop by in the firelight as he in turn piled the weapons on the hot coals of the forge—spike-tailed Nadders, two-headed Zipplebacks, stone-skinned Gronckles, even the fiery Monstrous Nightmares. They looked almost like demons, crawling through the flames, snarling and snapping and howling in triumph and defiance with every house set aflame. _Rebuilding on the edge of winter,_ he thought dully, hammering out bends and breaks in another sword. _The Chief’s going to lose his fuckin' mi—_

_“FIRE!”_

Instinctively, Ed ducked—only to jolt up as Izumi cackled, feeling heat that had everything to do with the childish reaction and nothing to do with the fires around them rush to his face. “It’s just the fire brigade, Ed, relax.”

Oh. It had been a _signal_ , not a warning—which made sense, since a blast had literally _just_ landed and most dragons (except for the most dangerous, the rarest, the deadliest) needed a few seconds to recharge before striking again (so he’d been doing his research on how to take one down, so _what?_ It would give him an edge when he got a chance to take his shot at last).

 _Don’t look,_ he scolded himself, turning back to the forge. _Don’t think about how much cooler their jobs are, don’t think about how much you wish you were in their place. Just do your job until Teacher steps out, and then_ go.

 _And don’t even THINK about looking at_ her.

“You’d better not be thinking of going out there.”

Aaaaaand he’d been caught. Sort of. “Just for a few seconds?” he wheedled, knowing full well that it was no use lying to the blacksmith. Izumi raised her eyebrows, looking entirely unimpressed— _just like the rest of them, just as disappointed and annoyed._ “Oh, come on, _please—_ I gotta make my mark!” _I have to stop you—stop everyone—from looking at me like…that._

“You’ve made _plenty_ of marks already. On the main square, and the docks, the warships, the Great Hall…”

He gritted his teeth—he’d never _meant_ to do any of that! Of course, everyone conveniently seemed to _forget_ that he tried to clean up every mess he made, that he’d never actually _intended_ for any mess to _be_ there in the first place. _Guess it’s true that no good deed goes unpunished._ “ _Please,_ Teacher _—”_ he was begging now, but he didn’t care, he _had_ to get out there— “just two minutes, I’ll kill a dragon, my life will get infinitely better. I might even—” Blue eyes and hair like gold flashed in his mind, and he fought back the heat rushing up his skin. _Get a date, maybe. Never, probably, but I’ll have a_ chance,  _which is more than I've had for fifteen years._

Her eyebrows rose, full of a skepticism too much like the look in his father’s eyes, and he nearly wilted under it. “Not that I don’t have absolute faith in your skills, my _foolish pupil—”_ He forced himself not to flinch at the sudden bite in those words, berating himself for daring to feel betrayed, _you knew she wouldn’t let you, you know she doesn’t trust you—_ “but you can’t swing a warhammer, can’t lift an axe, throw a bola—”

 _Aha,_ now this—maybe _this_ opening he could exploit, just for a moment. Ed flung an arm out toward the canvas-covered contraption he’d built of scraps and spare parts over the past few months, backing toward it. “But _this—_ this can throw it for me!” He tugged the canvas off with a flourish he couldn’t quite help—so _what_ if he was dramatic, honestly, no one gave a shit when he was monologuing about inventions. They only really paid attention when he did something wrong, because hey, why _not_ pick on the runt! Sounds like an amazing Wednesday to me!

_Assholes._

Her eyebrows went up even higher as she took in the bola-thrower—Ed had wanted to name it the Mangler, but Al had found the schematics and immediately shut that down before he actually mangled something with it—sleek metal and polished wood. Ed squared his shoulders, praying she would be impressed or interested or at least not _disappointed—_

Then his hand, metal and burning in the heat of the forge, put just a _bit_ too much pressure on it, and he watched in dread and horror as a bola launched itself right into a customer’s head. _Oh, godfucking—I can’t just have_ one thing _work out for me, can I? Amazing. Fantastic. This is perfectly fine._ “It’s just a—a mild calibration issue, easy fix, but come _on,_ Teacher, this could—this could _help!” You know, for once._

“Ed.”

Izumi’s voice was heavy with something like sorrow, sorrow and anger and steel, and he made himself meet her eyes. She shook her head, and that simple gesture felt more damning than all the stares and whispers from the other Vikings, felt like a hole cut inside of him. “You’re a brilliant blacksmith—one that will be better than me. But a dragon-killer?” Black eyes were solemn, solemn and _sad,_ and Ed wanted to sink into the floor and never return. “We all have things we can’t be. That’s…that’s yours.”

_No._

_No, it’s not—it_ can’t _be._

“You’re wrong,” he bit out despite the earth dropping out from beneath him, despite one more person admitting that they didn’t believe in him. “I’m going to kill dragons. I’m going to finally do _something_ right.”

Izumi’s eyes widened, suddenly bright with concern. _Where was that a few seconds ago, huh?_ “Ed—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m not going out tonight, don’t worry.” The lie tasted as bitter in his mouth as all the _looks_ he’d gotten over the past fifteen years. He ignored its flavor, swallowed it down as he headed back to the weapons on the coals, the forge flaring bright as war raged outside.

 _I’ll show them. I’ll show them_ all.

* * *

_“NIGHT FURY!”_

There was a high-pitched shriek as wind sheered off invisible wings, and Ed stumbled out of the forge just in time to see his target swoop past a crumbling siege tower, little more than a shadow amidst smoke. One blast—one blast had done _that much damage,_ crushed a catapult to dust and ash in seconds, sent even the Chief leaping from the battlements. It was faster than lightning, invisible in the night, capable of _strategy_ (regardless of what the elders said, regardless of what the warriors said, there was _no way_ that thing would know to target their ranged weapons unless it could think at least a _little_ bit)—

_“GET DOWN!”_

And it never missed.

Another catapult fell—another, and another, and another. Wood, stone, steel, it didn’t matter. Nothing could stand up to those attacks.

Nothing and no one had been able to stand up to the Night Fury. To even _see_ it—not Chief Hohenheim, not Izumi Curtis, not his little brother. _Nobody._

_How do you catch a shadow that never comes down to earth?_

Izumi was gone, joining the fray as soon as the Night Fury had struck for the first time that night, broadsword and fists swinging. Which, you know, meant Ed was alone in the forge, surrounded by sharp objects, fire…and a golden opportunity that he’d have to be an idiot to pass up. And he was _anything_ but an idiot—no matter what _they_ said to the contrary.

Which brought him to _here—_ to a cliffside untouched by fire and smoke and battle, to the night wind on his face and a city on fire behind him. To the moment that could turn him into—into a _hero,_ for once.

 _With the Night Fury gone, we’ll stand a chance. We could find the Nest, stop the battle for good without worrying about it destroying everything, focus on protecting people’s homes and food instead of losing our defenses. And if I kill the Night Fury—the_ only _Night Fury…_

_Dad will be proud of me._

Everyone _will be proud of me._

He allowed himself a moment to wonder as he opened up and reloaded the bola-thrower, metal click-click-clicking in his wrist as he braced his hands on the trigger. What would it be like to walk through the village and be called a _hero?_ To be more than the kid who lost his arm and his mother in the same raid? To get smiles and praise and—god, more friends than just _Al?_

To _matter?_

A familiar high-pitched whistle filled his ears, and Ed jerked himself out of his thoughts with a gasp. _There it goes—_

There was only one siege tower left, which meant it would be aiming _there—_ which meant it would be illuminated, just for a second. Just long enough for him to aim and pull the trigger, to bring it down at last. To change _everything._

There wasn’t much he could see now, just a shape that blotted out the stars, all dark wings and darker, deadlier wrath. Ed tensed, fingers hovering over the trigger as fire lit up the night. For once the roars and shrieks of the Vikings and dragons seemed far away, unable to reach his ears, his eyes, his mind.

All Ed saw was flames, gold and red and burning bright—and then a sudden, sleek shape soaring through the flames with a howl that screamed triumph and wildfire.

_Now!_

His fingers jerked back, and the bola flew, wild and cutting silver through the inky black of the night—cutting silver right into lightning and death itself. That triumphant howl turned into a shockingly _human_ shriek of pain, a roar of shock and sudden agony and _fear_ that was all-too _real_ for it to belong to the dragon he’d aimed at (because dragons didn’t feel, dragons were _monsters,_ dragons had destroyed _everything_ a thousand times over)—but the Night Fury was roaring, falling, and…gone.

He’d done it.

_I did it._

Shock gave way to raw, wild elation, and Ed whooped, throwing his hands in the air. _“YES!” I did it, I fixed everything, I can be a hero, a Viking, I_ can _kill dragons!_ Al would never believe this, Dad would be _so proud,_ the whole village would look at him like he was a _person—_ everything would be _perfect._ “Oh my gods, did _anyone_ see that—”

 There was a low, taunting growl, savage and decidedly _not human,_ turning that shimmering, golden feeling of joy and hope into absolute _dread. Oh, come on…_ That icy, frozen feeling of sheer _horror_ tightened in his chest as he turned to find hellfire-yellow eyes winking at him with vicious, horrible glee, rust-red scales lighting up as flames flickered along wicked talons.

 _Monstrous Nightmare,_ he remembered distantly, recalling his father’s words once-upon-a-time ( _when he still thought you were worth something,_ a particularly nasty voice whispered), teaching him about the dozens of dragons that had struck their people down over and over and over. _Large, powerful, Stoker-Class—only the best Vikings go after those._

Its scales turned to flame, and Ed fought back the shriek of instinctive fear that pulled at his throat. _They have this nasty habit of setting themselves on fire. Right._

“I don’t know what your dragon pals have told you, but, uh—” He waved his hands at it wildly, hoping it might stop looking so… _hungry._ “I taste fucking awful, so you can fuck right off back to the Nest and we’ll keep this between us, yeah?”

The Monstrous Nightmare grinned, malicious and savage and all sorts of things that absolutely did _not_ mean agreement.

Ed gulped. “Thought so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this on a whim, but I'm like...actually excited by what I plan to do with this? So I'm gonna turn it into a full-length fic running through the WHOLE thing, which should be...exciting, to say the least (most chapters will be shorter than this, though). Wish me luck!


	2. Not A Natural At The Heroism Business

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things don't exactly go to plan for Ed. To be fair, they never do, but they go even less to plan than usual.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from the HTTYD Books, which pretty much describes _every _"hiccup", fictional or real. We might not be naturals at what we do. We have to work at it. In our own ways, we are all Becoming A Hero The Hard Way...and in this story, so is Ed. In fact, the same goes for canon--but the difference here is that in this AU, Ed is _trying _to be a hero. Maybe it's to fix things between him and his fellow Vikings, but...well, you'll see. Enjoy!____

Destroying the docks and the giant braziers again (for the seventh time in as many years) had been the exact opposite of the plan. Letting the dragons go by accident had been _worse_ than the opposite of the plan. Having no one believe him…well, Ed didn’t know why he’d ever thought this plan would work.

…And to be fair, responding to his father’s horror and exasperation with, “Okay, but I hit a Night Fury” had been a terrible idea, but hey. Spur of the moment excuses and explanations were what he did best, apparently, along with accidentally destroying the village. It was fine, really—or it would be, eventually. He just wished he wasn’t _here_ , trying to defend his case in front of the entire, angry village, with his brother’s disappointed eyes on his back and his father’s resigned irritation from the front. But it was fine—he could deal with it, had dealt with it since he was five and first fucked up in front of the whole village.

This was _normal._ And just because he hated it didn’t mean he wasn’t _used_ to it. Not like when he was five and had burst into tears in front of all of them and— _gods, why are you remembering that now, you’re FIFTEEN, gods-damnit._ He swallowed thickly, squaring his shoulders. _You’ve done this before. It’ll be fine._ “Dad—I swear, I actually hit it, if you’d just let me go down to Raven’s Point, I could bring it back or—or _something,_ come on—"

 _“Stop,_ Ed!”

Hohenheim’s voice was sharper than he’d ever heard it, genuinely _angry,_ and Ed couldn’t help flinching back, his mouth snapping shut before he could stop himself. _I—I should’ve seen this coming. I should’ve known._

_He’s not just Dad. He never will be. He’s the Chief, and you keep hurting the tribe, and—_

_No wonder he hates you._

_No wonder he replaced you._

It made sense—a runt couldn’t be the Heir, much less a crippled one, much less one who didn’t _think_ like a Viking or remotely _act_ like one. The other tribes had even remarked on it to Hohenheim in the past— _while he was in earshot._ He made them look weak, made their tribe look fragile and broken, but Hohenheim hadn’t cared. Not then. Not at first.

But the whispers kept coming, crueler and colder by the day, going from questions about the small, fragile child who was called the Heir of Amestris to rumors that he was weak, broken, dragon-touched, that he was a changeling, that the dragons had taken more than his mother that fire-stained night. To ones blaming him for the death of Trisha Elric, Chieftess of Amestris.

It was somewhere around that time that one came out that Alphonse Elric had surpassed the Heir, the younger son faster and stronger and a dozen times more Viking-like than the tiny, angry elder, his only flaw that he loved and protected his big brother. It was somewhere around then that Hohenheim had announced that Ed would take over the forge while Al trained as the Heir of Amestris.

It was somewhere around then that Ed learned his dad really _did_ blame him for his mother’s death.

He found his metal hand worrying and picking at the skin of his flesh, digging in beneath the callouses—an old nervous habit he’d thought he’d broken the _last_ time something like this happened.

 _Just like I thought I’d fix everything, huh._ “I—”

“Every time you step out in the village, disaster follows, Ed!” Hohenheim’s eyes were sharp with fury, his voice rising above its usual deceptive calm for the first time in ages. “Can you not see the winter is coming, and I have an _entire village_ to feed—and you just lost us at least a week’s food supply?”

“Dad.” Ed jolted at the voice, at the hand on his shoulder as a tall, slim body angled himself between them— _Al._ His little brother glanced over his shoulder at him, bronze eyes wide with worry and sympathy, a question flickering there: _are you okay?_

 _No, not really._ But he was alive, and only a little scorched, and he’d _still hit the Night Fury,_ so he was fine, really. No need to get into the mess that was his mental state at any given moment, and besides, he doubted that was what Al had meant. He dipped his head in the slightest nod, watching relief fall over his face before he turned to their father again. “Nothing’s broken that we can’t repair, and we had a surplus this summer. The damage looks worse than it is—and besides, I’ve seen the contraption Ed used to shoot it down, it was well made, and Brother has really good aim, we should at least check it out—”

Hohenheim sighed, looking suddenly weary. “Al, did you know about this?”

“No!” _No, I’m not letting you take the fall for me, damnit, the village actually trusts you and I can’t—can’t turn you into_ me. Ed shoved past him, tilting his head back to look Hohenheim in the eyes. “He didn’t know. This was my plan, and I—”

“Dad, I knew about it, I should’ve—”

“Al, don’t be an idiot, it was _me_ —”

“Izumi!” Their father’s call cut through their bickering, and Ed jerked back as his father’s hand set down on his shoulder with startling gentleness. Guilt started to pluck at his chest—despite the fact that his father blamed him for Trisha’s death, he’d never hurt him or _openly_ hated him. He just…didn’t try to connect, or respond to Ed’s attempts to do better. Which… _did_ hurt. But that shouldn’t have made him flinch when his dad touched his shoulder, right? _One more way that you're broken._ “Take him up to the hut, please. Al, you go too.”

Great. Now they were both in trouble.

Ed let Izumi swat him over the head—he sort-of _definitely_ deserved at least that, even if being humiliated in front of the entire tribe _again_ wasn’t on his to-do list for the day—and found himself staring at the ground as the laughter of the fire brigade filtered into his ears. _Just walk. Just walk, and don’t look at them, and pretend they don’t exist, and whatever happens, don’t look at_ her.

There was snickering as he passed from the youngest of the group, Mei—and, of course (because he definitely was a giant fuckup worth laughing at, most-fucking- _certainly)_ even a quiet, darkly amused chuckle from the ever-serious Lan Fan. No sound as he passed the best recruit except a whetstone scraping over the blade of her axe—small mercies, really.

If none of them spoke, he could handle it, get back without flipping out and making a fool of himself all over again. He was almost through the gauntlet, he just had to get a _little bit further—_

Then, of course, because someone had to make his day _just fucking perfect,_ there was a laugh. “Never seen anyone screw up _that_ badly.”

Ed’s teeth clenched, hands tightening into fists. _Asshole, asshole,_ asshole— “Thanks,” he spat, still not looking up. He knew what he would’ve seen if he had, though—dark eyes, dark hair, a grin like a goddamn _jackal._ Bastard was a fair fighter, he supposed, but _gods fucking above_ did Ling love pointing out his every mistake. _Don’t kill him don’t kill him don’t kill him_. “That’s _exactly_ what I was going for. Thank you _so much_ for pointing that out, you _fucking—”_

Al’s hand tightened around his, and he stumbled as his brother nudged him forward a bit, giving him a wan, sympathetic smile. “Don’t listen to him,” he murmured. “He’s doing it to get a rise out of you.”

 _No, he’s doing it because he can—and because no one gives a shit._ “And he’ll get my fist in his face if he does it again,” he snapped, but he let himself be dragged along, only glancing over his shoulder once—and meeting sharp, vicious blue eyes. _Her_ eyes.

Winry Rockbell, shieldmaiden in training, best warrior of their generation and (before her parents had died, before he’d become a disgrace, before everything had been so thoroughly ruined that even a blacksmith couldn’t forge it back together) his childhood friend, gave him a look of what could only be _disgust,_ and turned away _._

_I…earned that._

Ed ignored how hollow the knowledge made him feel, and continued up the hill, his teacher behind him and his brother by his side— _and everyone else laughing at my back._

* * *

 

“It wasn’t like last time.”

“I know, Brother.”

“I actually hit something!”

“I _know,_ Brother.” Al’s smile was sad, rueful. Ed hated it. “I believe you.”

 _No, you don’t._ He appreciated the sentiment, appreciated Al lying for him, but it was still a _lie._ And lies already hurt like a _bitch,_ especially when they came from someone—usually the only person, in his case—who actually at least _tried_ to believe him. “But you’re not going to come with me to check it out, are you.” Which, you know, he expected, because Al had stopped going on quests with him after he’d destroyed their father’s warship with a failed dragon-killing invention—hadn’t _said_ it was because of that, would _never_ say that to him, but the timeline matched up, and well. Ed was smart enough not to pretend otherwise, at least not to himself

Al rolled over with a sigh, propping himself up on his elbows on his perch on the bunk next to Ed’s own. Ed could feel those bronze eyes on him as he shoved things into his bag from the desk they shared—map, notebook, charcoal pencils and a knife (small, yes, but he’d sharpened it to the point of being able to cut through Gronckle-hide, capable of bringing the Night Fury’s heart to his father and proving himself at last). “Raven’s Point, right? I don’t know if Dad’s gonna give me enough time away from the repairs.”

 _Right. Because I created an even bigger mess than usual._ He tried not to wince, but Al noticed, sitting up with a frown. “Not because of _you,_ Ed—the raid was already bad before—”

“Before I knocked over a giant torch and crushed the dock ramps?” The words sounded bitter, cold and cruel even to his ears, and he stopped, staring down at the schematics he’d been mindlessly throwing into the satchel—the ones for the Mangler. For the machine that was supposed to fix _everything_ and just turned into _another_ mistake, another hiccup from the village disgrace. A vicious, sudden desire to crumple them, burn them swept him, and he reached for the papers.

 _Or maybe not. Because I_ did _hit it—I did! And I’m going to bring its heart to my father, and he’s going to_ not _look at me like someone skimped on the meat in his sandwich for once._

_…but this machine still did more harm than good. Just like the rest of them._

“I mean, intentional or not, you _did_ sort of knock over a giant tower of fire onto the docks.” Ed tensed at the words, crumpling the Mangler blueprints in his metal hand, and Al winced. “But they always get bad when winter starts. We’re at our weakest, and they’re at their strongest, so obviously we take more of a hit.”

“And yet the blame still ends up pinned on me.” Moodily, Ed drummed his fingers on the rough-hewn table, shoving the paper and pencils still littering it into a corner. _Because what better scapegoat is there than a one-armed runt who couldn’t even handle being Heir?_ “As _always_.” He slumped into the chair with a sigh, the wild energy that had propelled him through the past several hours giving way to an exhaustion so bone-deep that it _ached._ “Why can’t Dad ever, I dunno, _give a shit?” About_ me, _for once. Not just what I did to the village, but—but what I actually_ am, _and am trying to be._

“Because he’s an idiot,” Al said simply (Ed certainly agreed with the sentiment), leaning back against the headboard. “He’s _trying,_ but he’s an idiot, and he’s worried about the winter. Plus, he wants to lead another expedition to Helheim’s Gate to look for the Nest before the ice sets in.”

“And you know this _how?”_

His little brother simply raised his eyebrows, looking at him with pure disbelief. Ed snorted. “Right. You’re the Heir.” _Because you were replaced, you were replaced, you weren’t good enough—oh, shut_ up, _brain._ He pushed the traitorous thoughts out of his mind, shoving another pencil and a compass into his bag. “Doesn’t explain why he looks at me like—like they’re _right._ He’s my _dad,_ but sometimes he acts like—”

 _Like he only has one son._ He shook his head before the words could slip out, barreling on before Al could prod him forward and those damning words escaped. “Besides, he _never listens!”_

“Some might say you two have that in common,” Al muttered, absolute traitor of a little brother that he was. Ed threw a pencil at him, and he dodged it with a yelp. “Hey!”

“You’re missing the point—”

“No, _you’re_ missing the point.” Al rose to his feet, the amusement vanishing from his bright bronze eyes. Ed slung the strap of the bag over his shoulder, forcing himself to look him in the eyes as the usual light, the warmth that was there even when the rest of the world loathed him, faded to deadly seriousness. This wasn’t his little brother looking down at him now, shoulders squared and jaw set and eyes as sharp as blades. This was the Heir of Amestris. “Dad thinks you’re trying to be something you’re not, and he’s scared that you’ll get yourself killed doing it.”

Ed stared at the ice in that stare, the pleading and hope beneath it—begging _him_ to stop being something the entire world thought he wasn’t, that it wouldn’t let him be. _And so are you._

It shouldn’t have been a painful thought. He’d known it, that Al didn’t think he could kill dragons, that he could be a warrior like the rest of them—that his little brother was _scared_ for him. He’d just…thought he had a little more faith in him. That he’d be _proud_ of him—that he’d look at him like he was less of a disappointment to pity and protect, and more of someone to actually look up to, like he had when they were children. _Before_ he was the village pariah, and Winry hated him, and he was the laughingstock of the village.

 _Maybe after today, he’ll look at me like that again. Like I’m worth something._ Ed set his jaw, tightening his grip on the strap of the leather bag and starting down the staircase. “I just want to be one of you guys.” _A dragon-killer, a warrior, a_ fighter— _someone who can make sure no one ever ends up…like me._

Al might have said something else, but Ed was already heading out the door. Raven’s Point was waiting for him. The Night Fury was waiting for him.

_I can still fix this._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what did you think? I can't wait to write more of Ed's dragon training class. Winry as Astrid is gonna be especially fun, haha! Oh--and next chapter, we finally meet our Night Fury!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and hopefully I'll have the next update for you guys soon!


	3. Ever Wholly Monstrous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morning dawns on Amestris, and Ed is--as usual--nowhere to be found. Unless, of course, you happen to be tracking a Viking who's tracking a Night Fury who...isn't tracking anything, because he's rather tied up at the moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title comes from this quote from John le Carre, which grabbed my attention as soon as I saw it: "The monsters of our childhood do not fade away, neither are they ever wholly monstrous." It certainly fits this chapter, which is the tipping point in Ed's views about dragons, from seeing them as purely monstrous to something...different. His curiosity is sparked, and from that curiosity comes a change so profound that no one could see it coming.
> 
> (except for those of us who have seen HTTYD, cause like. dragons, y'all)

If there was one place Ed felt truly, genuinely safe—felt as close to _free_ as he’d ever been in _fifteen years—_ it was wandering the depths of the forests around Amestris.

Most Vikings didn’t care to explore them too deeply, and warned their children to do the same, to turn to the seas instead of the woods and the skies high above as _true, proper_ Vikings should—like _everyone_ did, and like they all should, because looking at something different would make _you_ the next hiccup. Ed, though, had always loved vanishing into the trees, always felt strangely safe amidst the sun-dappled woodlands and rich pines despite the monsters that might lurk within (which probably made him even more of a hiccup than routinely destroying the village by not being Viking enough for them). It couldn’t be more dangerous than the beasts wearing friendly faces waiting for him back in the village, certainly.

Well. _Might_ wasn’t exactly the right word for the presence of monsters, given what he knew (or thought he knew) for certain had crash-landed in these woods. If there was anything that qualified as a monster in this world, the Night Fury was definitely it.

Even if it was being a little _bitch_ and was ridiculously difficult to find, for some bizarre reason.

It really shouldn’t have been. He’d _seen_ where the thing was bound to land, the arc it made as it fell through the sky. Hell, he’d even made sure to mark off the potential crash sites on a hastily-scrawled version of the map he’d spent the past few years scribbling into his notebook, crossing them off one by one with a diligence that might have made even his _father_ proud. Or _would_ have, if any of those crash sites had turned up with a downed dragon called “the offspring of Light and Death itself” conveniently pre-killed by the fall or the bola.

So far, he just had a notebook with a lot of charcoal x’s, sore legs, bruised pride…and absolutely no Night Fury to show for it. Because why would he? Why _would_ the gods offer him the _one thing_ that could completely fix his life? That would mean they approved of him, and who could ever approve of a skinny, crippled runt whose every step was followed by disaster?

_Not Amestris, not the gods, and definitely not dear old Dad._

Ed forced his metal fingers to uncurl where they were crushing the notebook dangerously tight, the indents left in the soft leather cover joining countless others. He’d learned a long time ago not to try to hold pencils—or any writing materials at all, really—in that hand; one squeeze too tight and he’d be stuck whittling down a new branch and sticking it in charcoal until the traders came with proper ink. Which, with the ice of winter setting in, wouldn’t be for…three months, at least. Maybe a proper Viking wouldn’t care, but Ed had proven a dozen times over that he wasn’t exactly _(wasn’t even slightly)_ a proper Viking.

Not at _all,_ really, but that was depressing to think about and totally beside the point. Even if the fact that he’d lost an _entire dragon_ in the woods he knew like the back of his (flesh) hand was even _more_ depressing than that.

“Come on,” he muttered—to who, he wasn’t entirely sure. The gods, maybe, or the Norns, or whatever part of him still had hope _left,_ or even the Night Fury itself. At this point, he’d take any help he could possibly get. He certainly needed it.

 _You’ve needed it for years—and who gave a shit?_ He gritted his teeth against the voice of his insecurities, fingers tightening instinctively around the notebook again. “Come _on,”_ he repeated, glaring down at the map before narrowing his eyes up at the landscape before him. Pines and firs that seemed to sink their claws into the clouds themselves towered all around, moss creeping over the ground and along their trunks, bracken crunching under his boots despite his best efforts to keep quiet. Everything looked quiet, peaceful, perfectly normal—and that was exactly the problem.

See, a Night Fury falling from that distance…well, it would pick up a helluva lot of speed, and hit the ground with enough force to leave dents, tears in the canopy of trees and gouges in the branches that reached across his path. Even _without_ his knowledge of physics, more complete than that of almost any other Viking, anyone with even a shred of sense would be know that a fallen dragon left scars upon the earth. That they didn’t just vanish in silence when they hit the earth.

For dragons, while monsters, were pure fire and defiance. No one could expect them to go quietly, to _not_ screech and howl and burn as what was supposed to be airborne was forced to the ground. Or they _could,_ but it wasn’t likely to end well for them. Despite all the pain and trouble they’d caused…Ed could respect that. _Understand_ that, even.

He was pretty damn defiant himself, after all.

Didn’t mean he liked them. Didn’t mean he wasn’t going to kill them and prove himself at last. But wasn’t it better to know and respect your enemy than to constantly overestimate yourself? Wasn’t that what Dad— _no, just Hohenheim_ had taught him, back when he’d been the Heir? To look at your enemies as your equals, and fight them as such?

Maybe he couldn’t do that with sword or shield or axe, but he’d gone mind-to-matter with the Night Fury and emerged victorious. Semi-victorious, given that he couldn’t _find_ the thing, but…

 _Ironic. I’m listening to you far more now than I ever did as Heir._ The thought brought a bitter smile to his face, one that soured into an equally bitter scowl as he glared down at his map, crossing off the location—one of the last three possibilities—and stomping off, no longer bothering to even _try_ and creep quietly through the undergrowth. The x’s scrawled across the map seemed to laugh mockingly, stark and black against the rough draft version of the project he’d been working on for _years—years, and they still say it’s useless, that they don’t need it._ He barked a sharp, vicious laugh. _We’re Vikings. We explore the seas, conquer mountains. How can they say I am—that the maps are—useless?_

The x’s flashed, sharp and bold against the page as he stormed through the forest blindly. _Because you are, aren’t you? You destroy and you break and every attempt to fix it makes it worse. Maps and smithing and useless inventions won’t make you a Viking._ Nothing _will make you a Viking._ The markings, failure after failure after _failure,_ burned into his mind, and he gritted his teeth against the onslaught. _You’re useless, useless, useless—_

“Shut up!” Furiously, he scrawled the pencil across the page, Raven’s Point and the surrounding cliffs, towering mountains and sprawling forests vanishing under scribbles of charcoal and ink. He snapped it shut, shoving it into his jacket—and stopped short, gazing blindly down at his hands. _Great. Now you’re destroying your own shit because of random voices. You’re going insane._  

At least it hadn’t been the original, right? If that got ruined…

_You’d be even more useless than you are now._

Ed shuddered, scowling, and started shuffling through the undergrowth at a slower pace—not before kicking a stone, watching it bounce off the ground and down the slope. _Of course you can’t find it. Of course you’re going to fail again. Of course everything’s going incredible fucking wrong._ “The gods must hate me,” he muttered aloud. “That’s gotta be it. Otherwise, how would I lose _an entire fucking dragon?_ Who even _does_ that?” _Definitely not Al, or Ling, or Winry. Definitely not anyone who_ matters. He slapped a branch out of the way with a snarl, only to jolt back as it swung back and smacked him in the face, the blow and the _humiliation_ stinging worse than expected. “Fucking _hell—”_

And then he saw it.

The tree before him was ripped _in half,_ bark peeling and the trunk beneath drooping over the small trail he was following—a trail that spread into a deep furrow in the ground, one too deep and too wide to come from any natural disasters—hell, to even come from other _animals._ No, all of this—fallen leaves, crushed bracken, hell, even the _claw marks_ sunk deep in the ground—could have only come from one thing. From one _dragon._

_From…from the Night Fury._

_From my_ prey.

Ed’s eyes widened, metal fingers twining instinctively with flesh ones, squeezing together in a nervous habit he’d had since _getting_ the damn arm. The Night Fury…the Night Fury might have been just over the edge of the ledge a few feet ahead. His chance was _that close,_ seconds within reach…

_So why do I feel so terrified?_

It made sense, he tried to convince himself. This was the _Night Fury,_ a dragon who had single-handedly caused more destruction than any other species (except for perhaps the glimmering white “partner” Fury that the dragon had worked with before it was captured). He’d be stupid _not_ to be scared of it, to approach it brazenly.

But it felt like… _more._ Like he was standing on the cusp of something he didn’t understand yet, about to fall over the edge or step back into obscurity. Like this moment wouldn’t just change _everything—_ it would change _him._

Ed swallowed, forcing his hands to loosen around each other, and dared to creep forward. Under the destroyed tree, across the deep gash ripped into the earth, on hands and knees to the very edge of the ridge…and he stopped, curling his fingers into the soft earth, squeezing his eyes shut.

_This is everything you want. This is exactly what you asked for. A chance to prove yourself, change everything, to make them all notice that you’re still there._

_Don’t you_ dare _turn away now._

Steeling himself, Ed slunk forward just enough to peer over the edge, fingers instinctively drifting to the knife tucked in his belt and twining around the ivory handle. Golden eyes narrowed, sharp and wary as his gaze crept over the small clearing—before freezing, stopping, _staring._

Because before him…

Before him sprawled the Night Fury.

Granted, he’d never seen a Night Fury before, but this—this _had_ to be it. It was wrapped up in the iron-fused ropes of the bola, all dark scales and terrifying silence, powerful body still and unmoving. There was no other dragon that had been struck by a bola that could land this far out. There was nothing else it could _be._

Ed pulled himself to his feet, skidding down the ridge and stumbling to a halt, hands slamming into the rock he ducked behind. The terror was still there, pounding at his heart like ice rushing through his veins, but under the ice there was… _lightning._ Excitement-sharp and fury-bold, it electrified him as he pulled the knife free, fingers tightening around the hilt. _You did it. You actually did it. You took down a dragon no one’s ever seen and now they’ll_ have _to care, they’ll_ have _to give a shit about me, no one will doubt me ever again and everything will be_ perfect. Bit by bit, the edge of a smile crept over his lips, his breathing coming harsh and ragged as it started to spark through him. _You just have to make sure it’s dead._

Easy enough. Just check for breathing, pulse, movement.

 _It’s a downed dragon, and it might already be dead._ Ed set his jaw, rising to his feet and stalking closer, closer, closer. _Either way, you brought it down. You have to finish it._

The dragon looked less and less like a mere lump of dark scales the closer he got, features slowly revealing themselves until he was near enough to touch the creature. It was _sleek,_ he realized, less spiky than he’d expected, a ridge of small spines running down its back and flaring into tiny, near-invisible plates along the sides of its tail. Its face was long, round and flat, with strange, flappy protrusions—ears, maybe?—stretching from its skull, pinned flat against dark scales. Scales, he noticed, that weren’t purely black; red dusted them, like someone had crushed rubies and scattered them across those smooth inky-black scales. Like night and fire turned into the deadliest of beings.

It was powerful, dangerous, savage and swift as a blade. Fear clutched viciously at his heart—the damn thing was awe-inspiring, _terrifying_ and it wasn’t even _moving_. _Night Fury. The unholy offspring of lightning and Death itself. The most dangerous dragon in the known world…_

_And it’s entirely at my mercy._

Disbelief and _hope_ began to flood him, his frown of concentration slowly turning to a wild, delighted grin. “Yes…oh, gods, _yes,_ this fixes _everything!” Al will be proud, Dad will be proud, Winry won’t hate me, Ling will finally shut the fuck_ up— _I did it, I_ did _it._  tightened his grip around the dagger, bracing his metal hand against the dark scales _(still warm,_ he registered dimly—warm enough to feel through fingers made of _metal,_ but he didn’t dare let the doubt sink in _)_ as he raised it. “You’re going to make me a hero,” Ed whispered, and brought it down—

And gasped as he was thrown back, stumbling unsteadily back as the Night Fury’s low growl rumbled through the clearing.

_Not dead._

His heart pounding, Ed watched the thing’s sides heave, the snarls of the beast intermixed with shockingly _expressive_ groans of pain as it struggled against the ropes before slumping. _Notdeadnotdeadnotdead—shit, it’s_ alive, _maybe_ I’m _dead—but no, it’s still trapped._ He shuffled closer hesitantly, dagger in hand. _I still have a chance. I can still—still be_ useful.

Then its eyes opened, and Ed _froze._ Froze at those _burning_ silver eyes, the hate and terror shining savagely within them, the silent plea within them. A person—it sounded like a person, with a mind and a soul of its own, was _looking_ at him like a person, desperate and pleading and _begging_ to be spared. Ed couldn’t move in the face of that gaze, that quiet grief for a life about to be lost, the _fear_ that shone there.

It looked…it looked as frightened as he was.

As scared, as lost, as _lonely_ and _sad_ as he was.

 _No._ He tightened his grip around the knife, ignoring how his hands shook on the blade, ignoring the horror pounding at his heart. No, _you can’t back down, you can’t—_

For a moment, those eyes gleamed gold and furious, stained with scars and tears no one had ever seen. _His_ eyes, staring back at him in the face of a dragon. Of _the_ dragon, the one he hated more than anything, the one he’d made his target and hunted for so, so long.

It gazed at him for a moment longer, before letting out a resigned whine of grief and closing its eyes, throat bared. As if asking him to make it quick, to make it painless—to let it die peacefully, at least, if he had to take its life.

And suddenly, Ed knew he couldn’t kill it.

The dagger thudded to the ground, his legs giving out as he choked on the realization, that single damning thought. A sob pulled at his throat despite everything, eyes burning with shame as he buried his head in his hands. _Coward. You’re such a_ coward, _they were all right and you’ve been ruining everything for no reason at all, because you can’t kill dragons and you can’t fight and you can’t do anything right at all._

_You did this._

“I did this,” Ed agreed aloud, willing the tears not to fall, willing the dark shape of the downed dragon not to blur. _You were about to kill a defenseless enemy and call yourself a hero. You were about to pretend that you could kill dragons, you were about to kill like a coward and pretend it was brave._ A choked, hysterical laugh escaped before he could stop it. _You’re as much a monster as it is._

_You did this._

_His_ invention had shot it down. _He’d_ come up with the idea of reinforcing the bola ropes and edging them in razor-sharp wire, the kind that even now dug into the Night Fury’s scales. _He’d_ pressed a knife to its skin and threatened a helpless opponent with death.

He’d done all that—

But if he’d _done_ it, then…then he could undo it, couldn’t he? This wasn’t a giant, fallen brazier that destroyed the docks, or a warship built to survive Helheim’s Gate that couldn’t survive Edward Elric, or a lucky axe that he’d accidentally sharpened too much. This was something he could _fix,_ or try to fix, at least, all on his own.

And die for it, maybe, if the thing was strong enough to kill him, if he wasn’t fast enough to escape it.

 _But this is my fault. So it’s my responsibility to fix it._ Ed’s fingers closed around the dagger again. _And my responsibility to face the consequences, no matter how severe._

The first rope snapped after a near-minute of sawing at it. He had to angle the knife three different ways to get around the wire within it and the flecks of hard iron, but he managed it easily enough; he’d _designed_ the damn things after all (even if everyone on the island conveniently _forgot_ that whenever they were marveling over them). The second fell apart even quicker. The third—

The third snapped, and then there was a shriek like crackling ozone, and Ed’s back was pressed against moss and rock and stone. An immense weight pressed down on his chest and he gasped as black scales swam into view, the beast’s claws tight around his throat (he thought of the gouges he’d seen in the trees, in the _rocks,_ and fear turned his blood to ice). Breath coming in rasping gulps, he forced himself to meet the eyes glaring into his, the death-sharp fangs bared in the slightest of snarls as luminescent silver bored into him. All the humanity he’d glimpsed moments before was _gone,_ leaving only the monster he’d heard of in stories.

 _I’m dead, I’m dead, I’m so_ dead—

The Night Fury opened its mouth, a low growl rumbling in its throat heralding one of its deadly blasts of flame and plasma.

_I’m sorry, Al._

It reared back—

And _screamed_ at him, its howling roar piercing into him as its claws slammed into the ground beside him. Ed jolted back, heart pounding as it whirled, a streak of shadow in the mist of the forest, and bolted off. Powerful wings managed to carry it up-up-up a moment before it slammed into trees and rocks, listing all over the place and shrieking like a bat out of hell all the while. Slowly, the knife lying forgotten, he managed to pull himself to his feet, gripping the boulder behind him for stability as he tried to process whatever the _hell_ just happened.

He was… _alive._

He’d spared it, and so…it had spared _him._ And left him with—a _scolding?_

Ed didn’t make it two steps down the trail before his body gave out, utterly overwhelmed by… _that_. For once, mind and body were entirely, one-hundred-percent in agreement, and he let himself sink gratefully into the welcoming darkness. The last thing he thought of before he hit the forest floor was silvery eyes—silver eyes and deadly claws and the sudden realization that the Night Fury was something more than a monster.

What it was, Ed didn’t know, but he’d be damned if he let it disappear without finding out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOOH THAT'S A WHOLE ROY NIGHT FURY!!!
> 
> The reason his eyes are silver instead of black is because...well, black scales and black eyes would be kind of difficult to distinguish. My next choice was obviously gray, but the color didn't have the same otherworldly glow to it that Toothless's do in the movies, and that's a big part of the Night Fury Aesthetic. So, silver!
> 
> Whatcha think? Liked it? Loved it? Loathed it? Leave a comment or a kudos telling me your thoughts!


	4. Never What You Were Before

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed does a lot of thinking, Hohenheim does a lot of talking, and neither steps away with what they really wanted heard. So same old, same old, honestly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title comes from this quote from one of Cassandra Clare's books: "Hearts are breakable...and even when they heal, you're never what you were before." Only in this case, it wasn't a romantic heartbreak that Ed's trying to heal from, but a familial one, with a wound they keep accidentally reopening.

The walk back to his family’s home was cold and unforgiving—so your basic, everyday Amestrian early-autumn season, but made even more unbearable by the mix of panic and curiosity downright _beating_ at his head. Every unsteady step was met by another question— _why did it spare me? Don’t they always go for the kill? How come it seemed to have trouble flying?—_ and a lingering, horrible prickle of anxiety that swept through him every time he thought about what would happen if his father knew. Hell, Ed was probably in enough trouble for leaving the house after a raid like that (after causing _that much trouble)_ , for staying out after sunset (he wasn’t even supposed to leave at _all)_ , for vanishing into the forests again (running away like he always did). If he knew that he’d encountered the Night Fury—the greatest danger to Amestris, their _greatest foe_ —had it trussed up and trapped and ready for the deathblow, and _didn’t kill it…_

He’d be dead. Maybe _more_ than dead.

And what would the others do to him? Izumi, Winry, _Al?_ Maybe Winry didn’t believe in him (or even _like_ him; that ship had sailed a long, long time ago, though, _so why did it still hurt_ ), but Al sort-of did and Izumi did too, and he’d spent so long trying to prove them wrong only to prove them _right—_ to prove himself a _traitor—_

 _Disaster. A complete and utter catastrophe of Asgardian proportions._ Ed’s mind drifted back to the words his father had used— _cold and cruel but_ right, _in the end, because you’re a little_ idiot—and he winced, fingers digging into his palms again. _Guess disaster really_ does _follow wherever I go._

He couldn’t _tell_ them, that was clear. Maybe Al, eventually, because he could _trust_ Al (at least, he was eighty percent sure he could trust Al), but definitely not any of the adults, and _definitely_ none of the kids his age ( _going into Dragon Training tomorrow and leaving you behind)._ Plus, he didn’t even have any proof that he’d _seen_ it ( _night-black scales dusted with ruby-red, sleek body, silver eyes almost…_ human), and given his reputation…he was no liar, but they still wouldn’t have believed him. Wouldn’t have cared.

Ed reached the village, reached his home— _is it, though?—_ before two hours had drifted past the sinking of the sun. Longer than he’d hoped to be out (if he’d gone through with his plan, he realized suddenly, he’d be a hero by now—or would he be a murderer?), but it meant he’d gotten home faster than expected after waking in the woods from that…encounter. Yeah, encounter worked to describe whatever the hell _that_ was.

 _Ha._ He knew _exactly_ what that was. He’d marched up to the unholy offspring of lightning and Death itself all gung-ho and puffed up on stupid pride, _oh-so_ determined to prove them wrong, only to be as _useless_ as they all said he was. Only to _let the damn thing go,_ when he could have killed it and saved so many lived, and…survive.

Which was the _weird_ thing about all this, really. He should have _died._ It should have used one of those blasts to turn him into charred flesh and dust, or torn into him with its claws or teeth, or crushed him to death or _something._ But the Night Fury had…had _scolded_ him, roared in his face with all the rage of a creature made a fool of before whirling and flying (surprisingly clumsily) off.

Dragons, though, always went for the kill. _Always._ Hell, they’d nearly killed him as a baby, killed his _mom_ instead and took his arm with them. This one, though, hadn’t, even when Ed had resigned himself to his fate as dragon chow.

 _I didn’t kill a dragon, and it didn’t kill me. Which means they were all right about me…but wrong about them? About it?_ He grimaced, remembering the feel of those claws on his neck, the smoke-and-night scent of its breath. _Maybe we just don’t know enough._

Well, since he wasn’t going into Dragon Training, he’d have all the time in the goddamn world to look. Though _where_ he’d look was going to be an issue, given that the dragon had probably (maybe? It had seemed weirdly unsteady, slamming into trees and rocks and cliffs) flown away by now.

 _Tomorrow. Worry about all…_ this _tomorrow._ He fisted his hands in the hem of his tunic, worrying at the fabric as he trudged up to the door of his house. _Just endure the latest scolding, and go to bed, and then start worrying about what it takes to “know enough”, whatever the hell “enough” even is for you._

 _And…and tell Dad he was right._ He grimaced at the thought, on principle more than because of _fear_ this time. After so many years spent arguing with the same person, you eventually just…started keeping score. Giving in felt like losing, but if he didn’t, then he’d have to fight dragons and show everyone just how much of a traitorous _mess_ he really was, which was bad for both him _and_ the village. _Tell him you’ll stop pushing for Dragon Training. That you’ll stick to the forge—no new inventions, no trouble, nothing. Just ask for permission to keep working on your maps and explore around while Al is at training with the others._ That was reasonable, right? Get the problem child out of your hair and out of the village, safely away from trouble and reputation-ruining shenanigans, let him learn a useful skill, and go on your merry way.

It was fine. It would be _fine._

Ed pushed at the door hesitantly, figuring that it was likely locked. To his surprise, it eased open a bit, revealing the small-but-mostly-cozy sitting room and kitchen, fires crackling in the hearth and casting the wooden walls in a warm light. Familiar shields hung on the walls, most ceremonial and decorative, but a few serviceable, and the exposed rafters were hung with furs from previous winters and stacked with his notebooks from when he managed to climb up out of reach. An old, smooth staircase hewn from a log covered with a carpet they’d traded for one of the rare good days this summer, a day when his dad had actually acted like a dad. A half-room half-loft up those stairs where his little brother probably slept now, two wooden beds and cotton-stuffed mattresses and thick wool blankets for an Amestrian winter.

Home—well, when his father (or Al, for that matter, who seemed to be losing patience with him with every passing moment) wasn’t pissed off at him or disappointed in him or _something_ of the like. Where he’d been born, where he’d lost his arm, where he’d started his maps, where he’d first tried to hold a sword, where he’d learned what it was like to be an heir, and a brother, and a son, and had it taken all away.

…Where Mom had died.

_Fire, smoke, yellow eyes claws scars Mama Mama no bring her back PLEASE—_

He pushed back flickers of memory and _fear_ , and pushed the door open, barely making out the figure of his father in the firelight. The man was slumped in the ancient wooden chair at the head of their small table, the high oak backing draped with pelts as always. He was facing away from the door, thank the gods, rather than waiting for him to get home and warrant a scolding, leaving him a perfect opening to slip in and dart up the stairs. Maybe he wouldn’t buy that he’d fallen asleep so fast, but it was as good a shot as he had at escaping from the lecture no doubt awaiting him, and starting the next morning by _agreeing_ with his dad…well, maybe it would make things a little easier. 

A memory stole into his mind unbidden as he slipped in and crept toward the stairs, footsteps muffled on the carpet—a memory from just a year after dragons killed Trisha Elric, before he’d been a disappointment and before his father had blamed him, before the mourning period was truly over and he was expecting to go back to chiefing in full force and all he had to be was Dad. He’d been—gods, he could barely _remember_ what he was like then, five years old and trying to learn how to navigate the world with a hand of steel instead of flesh. The other kids had been scared of it, of _him,_ and Al was too little to play with all the time, and he’d come fleeing into the house in tears when they ran from him. As if it could _spread,_ as if he’d send dragons down to snatch away their limbs and their families and their hope.

And Dad had held his hands, metal and flesh, tall and strong and unafraid, and told him stories about heroes with metal hands—Izumi’s teacher, Gobber, and his own master before he’d been chief, and even Tyr, god of bravery. Had said that the new hand was like a battle scar, and a mark of how much Mom had loved him—still loved him, from Valhalla.

Ed had believed him then, and for years after. He wished he still believed it now.

“Ed?”

He froze halfway up the staircase, instinctively crouching on the steps as his father stood, golden eyes the precise shade of his own searching his face. He didn’t seem… _angry_ _,_ thank Thor. Tired, and maybe a little sad _(you did that,_ you _did that, you keep upsetting_ everyone) and definitely frustrated—which he deserved, really, after destroying the docks and causing the captured dragons to get away (and _letting the Night Fury go,_ of all things)—but there was no _anger._ Which…was good. Maybe he was going to give one of those half-assed apologies and Ed would give his own and they could go on their merry ways and not talk until the morning.

Except Hohenheim seemed almost _nervous_ on top of it, and that boded well for absolutely no one. Especially not him.

He sat down on the step, peering down at his father warily. “What is it, Dad?”

Hohenheim coughed, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck—a habit, Ed noticed absently, that he and Al shared. “I want to talk to you about something. And apologize for—you know, today. For this morning.”

Oh. Okay, so…mostly according to plan, then. Eighty percent according to plan. Which was, you know, less than Ed had expected, had hoped, but it still seemed like an apology instead of a scolding and an opportunity to tell his dad that he agreed, that it was fine and that he wouldn’t try to kill dragons anymore. Ed swallowed thickly, tugging on the hem of his shirt absently. “Oh, uh—I actually wanted to talk to you about something too. And apologize also. Because…” _I destroyed the torches, the docks, let dragons loose…and failed you when I had the opportunity to prove myself._ The silver eyes of the Night Fury flashed in his mind again and he shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah.”

 _Because you were right, and I was wrong, and I’m way, way too tired of fighting to bother getting into that absolute_ mess _right now._

Hohenheim blinked, looking…surprised? Ed could guess why; he knew full well that he _hated_ admitting that he was wrong about something, especially when it came to his father. The old man was probably wondering if he’d hit his head when he snuck out of the house.

 _He’s not that far off,_ Ed thought, lips twisting into a sardonic smirk. _Just change “hit your head” to “slammed against a boulder by an angry Night Fury and passing out like a damn coward” and he’d hit the nail on the head._ He grimaced, the soreness in his back muscles flaring up as if in recognition of the thought. _And then I’d be slightly impressed and slightly terrified that he managed to actually guess that._ “So, uh—should you go first, or should I—”

“I—uh, I’ll go first.” Hohenheim clasped his hands together, shifting awkwardly. Ed tried to ignore that his own hands were mimicking the gesture, interlaced fingers squeezing at flesh and metal until crescents were cut into the former, just as he studiously ignored every other similarity. The golden hair and eyes, _that_ was unchangeable, that linked him to the royal line of the Hohenheim clan and the island of Amestris even when he’d been disowned as Heir, but everything else…everything else he could pretend didn’t exist. “I know you meant well, despite the results of your actions, and that you wouldn’t have launched the contraption if you weren’t certain it would work as intended.” There was a smile at that, almost fond, almost _real,_ and Ed couldn’t help the _hope_ that flickered in him at the sight, the faintest hope that the smile was for him and maybe Dad _was_ a little bit proud of him, despite everything, that he _was_ good enough—

“Al was right when he reminded me of that,” Hohenheim went on blithely, and the hope curled up and died in his chest. Of course it was for Al. Of course it wasn’t him. _Why do you keep falling for it?_ Bitterness swallowed the old _hurt_ and Ed went back to staring at his hands, squeezing them together and pretending it didn’t hurt. At least his hands had never let him down before—at least, not on the scale that Hohenheim usually did (though Ed couldn’t pretend that at least sixty percent of it was because of him). “You were trying to help and take the initiative, and I _do_ respect that, son, and I’m sorry for scolding you in front of the village, and for shouting.”

_Not like you’re not going to do it again, though._

Ed coughed, forcing his fingers to loosen before the crescents he’d dug into his flesh had could bleed and freak his father out. The last thing he needed was for him to go from…whatever _this_ was to concerned, overprotective parent who never acted like it when he _should._ “Um. Thanks for that, I—I guess. It’s okay, though, really. I’m sort of—used to it, now?”

He didn’t notice the flash of anguish that suddenly crossed Hohenheim’s face, gaze still fixed on his fingers. _Just get through this, and then tell him he’s right, and go to sleep._ “Besides, it was my fault, and I should have stayed inside, so _I’m_ sorry for not doing that. And for sneaking out of the house afterwards. And destroying the docks.” He picked at the hem of the soft red tunic, fingers worrying at the hem frayed from dozens of days spent fiddling with it. “I’ll start working on fixing it after I close up the forge tomorrow. Or I can do it when I get up, but—you know, Teacher’s handling the new recruits in Dragon Training and she wants me to handle the stall, but—”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Ed stopped short at that, eyes widening in confusion. _What—but I’m_ supposed _to clean up the messes I made; I messed it up so I have to fix it and that’s how it’s always been, that’s what_ you _taught me, what you even taught_ Al _before he—you know, stopped messing up._ “But the docks,” he protested in confusion, finally raising his head. “And the main square—I know I’m not strong enough to do them all by myself, but come on, Dad, I can handle _some_ of the repairs.” This made no sense at all, what was he _doing—_

Hohenheim _smiled_ suddenly—at _him._ The kind of warm, golden smile that Al usually got, that Ed hadn’t gotten for months (years, maybe, he barely kept track anymore), the one that made people forget they were only a few degrees south of Freezing-to-Death. It wasn’t exactly the proud-father-smile or the proud-chief-smile, but it was more than he usually got and _gods-all-freaking-mighty,_ it was terrifying. “I doubt you’ll have time between your work in the forge and Dragon Training.”

What.

_What._

Dragon— _Dragon Training._ As in, the program that every fighter on Amestris went through, that Izumi led whenever winter was on the horizon so they’d have fresh fighters before the ice set in, the one that Ed would have sacrificed _anything_ to get into just this morning—and now balked at the thought of setting foot in the Arena, balked and thought of silver eyes and black-red scales and a roar like a star screaming down from the sky.

He couldn’t kill dragons. And if he was in Dragon Training, then everyone would _see_ that he couldn’t kill dragons and they’d _hate_ him for not being able to kill dragons and _none of this would have been an issue if you hadn’t shot the damn thing down._ He swallowed thickly, shaking his head. “Dad, I—I was gonna—” _I changed my mind, I don’t wanna fight dragons, I can’t fight dragons, don’t make me, please._ “You were right,” he said, and hated how small his voice was. “You were right, and everyone was right, and I’m—I’m not a dragon fighter and I should stick to the forge—and I promise I’ll stop messing things up and playing around with inventions and I won’t make anything and pester you and Teacher about it, but I don’t want to fight dragons.”

Hohenheim’s smile faltered, the light in his eyes fading to confusion. Ed wanted to kick himself or kick the Night Fury or kick Hohenheim, but made himself stay hunched on the step. “What’s gotten you so discouraged all of the sudden?” There was a strange gentleness to his voice, one Ed hadn’t heard since he was…seven? Eight? Ten, maybe? “You’ve pushed for it for years, Ed, even after causing destruction far worse than this raid’s incident. Did I…”

 _Maybe. Gradually, over years, maybe, but—no._ Ed shook his head. “I can’t kill dragons,” he muttered, swinging his legs absently, “and people get hurt every time I try, so I don’t think I should try anymore. So no more inventions or disasters, I promise, but—can I keep my maps, please?”

Hohenheim’s eyes widened. “Ed, of course you can—”

“Great. Then I’m going to bed, and I’ll start on the repairs tomorrow, I promise.” He traced his fingers over his heart only half-sarcastically. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

He got to his feet, suddenly sore and tired to the bone, wanting nothing more than to collapse on his mattress and curl up and stop wondering about dragons, about humans, about everything and everyone—but Hohenheim’s voice stopped him before he could make it all the way up the stairs.

“I don’t expect you to be perfect, Ed, but you do need to learn to defend yourself as best you can. If you died…” His father made a noise that sounded almost _frightened,_ anguished, full of pain and fear, but when Ed turned, there was nothing but quiet resolve on his face. “Please go to Dragon Training with the others tomorrow,” he said quietly. “I’m heading out to Helheim’s Gate with several other warriors—one last search for the Nest before the ice sets in. Who knows, if we take the Nest, the dragons might leave us alone and you’ll have nothing to fear.” There was a hesitant, halting attempt at a smile, but this one fell through. They both knew the dangers of Helheim’s Gate, those eternally-fogged ocean graveyards said to contain the home of the dragons.

They both knew he might not make it back. 

Ed beat down the nausea that came with the thought, the idea of Al taking the burden of chiefdom (so young, _too_ young), of his father’s eternal, invincible presence disappearing entirely. “…Fine,” he mumbled, staring down at his feet. _At least he’s not demanding I be the best, right? Though I’d question his sanity if he did._ “I’ll go. And you’d better come back—for Al.”

_We both know it wouldn’t be for me._

“Ed—”

Ed turned, swallowed the hurt, the loneliness, the knowledge that he’d never really be heard just as he always did, and made his way up the stairs. “Good night, Dad.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter is dragon training--or the start of it! Enjoy!


	5. No Absolutes In Life, Save Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed's worst nightmare begins: Dragon Training. Fortunately, his teacher is the sole adult left in the village who doesn't hate his guts. Unfortunately, his entire class is comprised of people who _do. ___

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK! The chapter title is a quote from the Illuminae Files - “Miracles are statistical improbabilities. And fate is an illusion humanity uses to comfort itself in the dark. There are no absolutes in life, save death.” It suits Ed's bleak mood in this chapter. I hope you enjoy!

_“Welcome to Dragon Training!”_

_Welcome to my worst nightmare._

Twenty-four hours ago, Ed would have given anything—literally _anything_ he had left to give, whatever was left of his status, his reputation, his _life—_ to be one of the select few teens chosen to hear those words. Now they only worsened the heavy, sickening dread brewing in his gut, even as his fingers tightened unsteadily around the axe his father had pressed into his hands before he’d set off for the docks.

He was here. He was in fucking _Dragon Training_ and he was going to make a fool of himself in front of _everyone._ He’d prove all of them right, prove that he was a coward and a fuckup and that he _couldn’t kill dragons,_ just like they’d all tried to since he was—what, seven, eight? He’d be even more of a laughingstock, a _disappointment_ than he was now, and the one thing he could be proud of himself for was _traitorous._

 _If they knew you freed a dragon—and that you felt_ good _about it…_

He shuddered, footsteps falling heavily on the stone ramp of the arena, eyes on the backs of the recruits before him. Mei, tiny and gentle (to anyone but him) but absolutely fearless, Lan Fan, quiet and watchful, but a swift and sure-footed fighter, Ling, gigantic fucking _asshole…_ and cheerfully friendly to anyone who _wasn’t_ Edward Elric. Winry, straight-backed and cold-eyed and utterly dedicated, the most determined and the deadliest (and the most beautiful— _shut up, Ed, like she’d ever look at you)_ of them all.

…And Al, broad-shouldered and golden, every inch a Viking prince, walking into the arena without looking back. Without even glancing at his failure of a brother.

Because Alphonse Elric was a Viking, was everything Ed had tried to be for _fifteen years_ and effortlessly _perfect_ at it. Because his little brother was the only thing Ed really had left to give a damn about, but that same brother was starting to care less and less about him. Because to cement the respect of the people of Amestris and the tribes of the Archipelago, he had to conquer all weaknesses.

_And there’s no weakness greater than me._

Logically, Ed had known that they’d grow apart as soon as Al was named Heir. He’d known that he’d eventually look at the big brother he’d once adored and see the village pariah, the too-small too-angry too-destructive blacksmith’s apprentice who was only any use in the forge, and walk away. It made sense, and it had happened throughout history, over and over and over. A hiccup was born to the chief or chieftess, the child was either floated out to sea to see if it survived or kept by its parents. If it was kept, it was shunted aside bit by bit by bit until it vanished into obscurity, its younger siblings or cousins or anyone who would be a better Heir rising to eclipse them. The hiccup’s name would be long forgotten, the “weakness” bred out of the bloodline, and life would go on.

No one would know they existed without looking, and no one would _care_ enough to look.

Ed had hoped, prayed, _begged_ the gods and the Norns to give him a different fate—to let him be a dragon-killer, to be useful, to do anything but _fade._ Somewhere deep within, though, he’d _known—he’d always known—_ what would happen.

Al would rise, and Ed would disappear. It was the way of the world, of history, the fate the Norns had written for him. There was no other way. His greatest ally and only friend wouldn’t spare him a second glance as he because a supernova of light, another warrior and leader beyond compare. He’d be just like the rest of the Amestrians.

He’d just…he hadn’t thought it would be so _soon._

Ed wondered, fingers tight around the hilt of the axe, if he should have told him about the Night Fury last night. If maybe they would be walking together instead, whispering like they’d always used to, making plans—for _tracking_ a dragon rather than killing it this time. If Al would’ve been horrified that he spared it or intrigued that it had spared _him._ Maybe Al wouldn’t have believed him at all and just scolded him for going out into the forest. Hell, maybe he would have snuck out and tried to find the Night Fury for himself.

He’d almost told him, had wanted to wake him and tell him about scales like liquid night and eyes the same icy argent as quicksilver, about claws so sharp they could cut through rock and fangs capable of tearing through humans like they were nothing. About how those fangs and claws _hadn’t_ turned on him, how the _offspring of Lightning and Death itself_ had shown _mercy,_ of all things, about the terror and wonder and the curiosity and the guilt. If anyone would understand, he’d reasoned to himself, it would be Al. Al _always_ understood.

But then he’d remembered the ice in those bronze eyes that morning, and the way he’d gone from little brother to Heir, and the words had stuck in his throat.

Father was already sailing for Helheim’s Gate. Al would be old enough, trained enough to go with him soon, or be busy running the tribe in his place. And if there was one thing Ed had learned while he’d been strong, brave enough, good enough to be the Heir, it was that a Chief put the tribe above everything. Even family. _Especially_ family.

Soon Al would, too.

And so Ed had decided to keep the dragon—and the question of _what the hell it was—_ to himself.

Now, though, he half-wished he _had_ told him about it, so they’d have something to talk about and someone would actually _look_ at him for once.

He gritted his teeth and ducked into the arena, shuffling toward the edges of the clump of recruits and hovering as near as he dared allow himself. Any closer and they’d notice and start mocking him—probably, given that they hadn’t missed a goddamn chance so far—but any nearer and he wouldn’t be able to hear them.

And maybe pretend he was one of them. You know, for once.

 _But you’re not,_ a voice whispered, and Ed found himself edging back a bit, falling into line before the wall of doors—c _ages. Because they would have killed that dragon, and you didn’t…and you did something good. You saw something they never would have._ Ed’s fingers tightened around the axe, metal and flesh digging into the age-smoothed wood. _So why do you_ want _to be like them?_

Ed shivered at that—at the _question,_ the strange finality of it, and wondered. He _wasn’t_ like them—any of them. He was metal and flesh, an incomplete human, not Viking enough and not strong enough and too _different_ for any but a few to stand to look him in the eyes.

And they still didn’t. Wouldn’t.

Maybe…couldn’t.

_But the dragon did._

He filed away the thoughts for later, head jerking up as Izumi’s voice rang out across the arena, the blacksmith and Hand to the Chief stalking in front of them. “Alright, line up!” She caught Ed’s eye and winked, black eyes glinting with a strange fire, and he managed a wobbly sort of smile back—one that curved into a delighted _smirk_ as he realized what came next.

_Oh, they aren’t gonna know what hit them…_

“Recruits,” Izumi said, and stopped before them, eyeing them like a wildcat spotting some particularly interesting prey. “Before we begin, I have a few… _questions_.” Her eyes flashed dangerously, and despite knowing that he was probably the only one here who had Izumi’s “favor” (which often meant more hard work and danger, _go figure,_ but Ed was fairly used to it after working under her since he was _tiny),_ Ed stood straighter, squared his shoulders and loosened his grip on the axe until it felt less like he was trying to squeeze the life out of it. Al did the same, he noticed, and even Lan Fan stiffened a bit, but the others (except for Winry, forever in a warrior’s posture) didn’t move. Didn’t understand why, exactly, the blacksmith was known as the single most terrifying force on their island.

Ed knew, and couldn’t wait to see them all knocked on their asses for their mistake.

“As you know, the raids have been getting worse and worse,” Izumi went on, her posture languid, unassuming, utterly false. “So rather than training with the more _traditional_ foes—the Gronckle, the Zippleback, the Nadder—you’re going up against the most dangerous of them all.” She jerked her head toward the cages behind her, which shook and rattled and screeched obligingly.

Dragons. Those cages were full of _dragons—_ and if he knew his teacher at all (after so many years, he was at least eighty-five percent sure he did), they were going to see them, _fight_ them. Or the others were, at least. _I’ll probably get eaten in the first two minutes,_ he thought dryly. _That would be just my luck, too—surviving the Night Fury and then turning into Nightmare chow. Amazing!_

Izumi’s lips curved into a wicked grin. “Let’s see how much you lot know about them, shall we? You, Mei—tell me what you know about the Monstrous Nightmare?”  

“Fireproof scales,” Mei said confidently, dark eyes bright and eager. “Capable of setting its scales on fire as well, and can burn hot enough to melt iron. Potent ranged blasts of fire, but they generally come in focused, narrow streams that are easier to avoid. They’ve got a habit of rearing up and showing the undersides of their wings and bellies when they’re about to blast, so it’s easiest to strike when you get in close.” She hesitated, before continuing, her tone much more subdued. “…Only the best Vikings go after them.”

Winry’s eyes flashed, harsh and blue as an Amestrian winter, and Ed flinched. _Right. A Nightmare…a Nightmare was the dragon that killed her parents._

Izumi regarded Mei thoughtfully. “Right, except for the last bit.” Her grin was something nearly monstrous, and Ed shuddered before he could stop himself. This wasn’t his teacher, cheery and strong and guiding him through the forge, even comforting him when he scorched his hand the first time. This was the Hand of the Chief, the commander of their armies when all else failed. She was absolutely terrifying, but really, what else was new? “The Monstrous Nightmare is the _least_ dangerous of the dragons you’re gonna face in her. Lan Fan—tell me about the _Razorwhip.”_

 _Ooh, that’s a new capture._ Ed tilted his head toward the cage Izumi was angling her head toward, furrowing his brow thoughtfully; the Razorwhip, he knew, came from outside the fog banks surrounding the Archipelago, which was actually sort of _cool_ when he thought about it. His map only covered what he’d seen and heard about, but to expand it to the world beyond that endless fog…gods, it would be _incredible._

Of course, that wasn’t anything close to what Lan Fan said (because who else gave a damn about exploring or learning or anything _interesting?)_. “Armored scales like metal plates, wings as sharp as a Timberjack’s,” she recited, “but smaller and faster than a Timberjack. Rare Sharp-Class dragon—I think we’ve only ever seen a few. Some sort of glittering blue fire, shoots spikes like a Nadder, poisonous eyeballs. No known weaknesses, but arrows aimed in the chinks of its armor seem to be effective.”

Izumi made a noncommittal noise. “You know the basics, at least. Ling, the Skrill. Tell me what you know about it.”

“One of the few dragons that can raid while it’s storming, but not if it’s put in water or kept underground.” For once, there wasn’t a hint of mockery in his voice, nothing but a sort of energy like a brewing storm and ironclad determination. _Still an asshole, but at least he knows_ some _of his shit._ “Powerful lightning blasts, capable of creating storms from nothing but cloud coverage and delivering deadly shocks. More aggressive than most dragons in that it kills first, steals later.”

 _And then there’s, you know, the interesting fact that it didn’t show up until ten years ago while the other species have been raiding us for years. And the fact that there’s only two or three of them and we’ve only managed to capture the one. And the records that show it used to raid the Isles of Xing, which make it_ weird _that it’s here, of all places. But sure, ignore all the interesting stuff._

Like everything else that went down on this gods-forsaken island, it wasn’t surprising. Just…annoying. Kind of depressing too, if he was being honest. Maybe questions like these were treasonous— _ha,_ they definitely were—but hadn’t his own father taught him that knowing his enemy meant victory? That finding the home of the dragons was the key to ending the war and stopping the raids once and for all? That dragons should be respected as much as they were hated, because to treat them as anything less was a disservice to the threat they created?

 _Fucking hypocrite._ Ed swallowed down a derisive snort. _Then again, here I am, training to kill dragons when I_ literally _let one go yesterday, so it must run in the family._

 _Life is just_ amazing.

Izumi’s eyebrows rose. “Incomplete, but better than expected.” Which was probably Ed’s fault, given how much he’d bitched about Ling and his relentless mockery in the workshop. He couldn’t bring himself to feel bad about it; the bastard _deserved_ it for being incapable of shutting up. “Winry, the Stormcutter.”

Ed couldn’t help the way his heart skipped as Winry nodded, moving forward just enough for him to glimpse her clearly. Her fair hair was pulled back in a tight, high ponytail, pale blue eyes glinting like ice and steel and death—so different, _deadly_ different from the cheerful little girl he’d once called friend, but every bit as beautiful and terrible. Her warhammer—huh, that was new, hadn’t she had an axe before?—rested easily, naturally in her hand as she answered, “Sharp-Class dragon, four pairs of wings. Fairly rare and presumably far from our region of the Archipelago, since we’ve only killed a few and captured just the one in there.” As if in response, the Stormcutter in the cage shrieked, inhuman and furious, so different from the howling, scolding scream of the Night Fury before it had vanished. “Not much is known about it, but they’re agile and fast despite their size and launch powerful spiraling blasts of fire. Also harder to find a blind spot on these dragons, as they can rotate their heads.” She tilted her head thoughtfully, blue eyes glinting. “But if you can move fast enough to dizzy them and break a pair of their wings, you can keep one down.”

“Surprisingly complete,” Izumi acknowledged, nodding to her. Ed wondered if he should try and offer a smile or a thumbs-up or something other than this blank, sort-of-definitely-creepy half-staring thing, but decided against it; at this point, he’d be lucky to leave the arena without a warhammer to the face. “Now, lets see how our _pride and Heir_ is doing, shall we?” Izumi crossed the arena to the last cage—a _silent_ one, Ed noted with interest, before nodding to Al.

“Tell me about the _Light Fury.”_

Ed’s blood froze.

Right. The Light Fury. The _gods-damned Light Fury,_ the one who they’d never seen even when they captured it, who lit itself on fire and turned its scales invisible so they couldn’t make anything out. The one that had fought in perfect, devastating tandem with the Night Fury until it had swept too close to the village, taken a hit meant for its strange partner and fallen to the ground. The one that had seemed so fiercely protective of the Night Fury that it had willingly let itself be captured by human hands so it could fly away, and had killed ten humans in the chaos of its invisibility before it was subdued.

That dragon—

Oh, that dragon would hold one _hell_ of a grudge if it ever found out what Ed had done.

He choked down a near-hysterical laugh as Al lifted his chin. “The Light Fury is, as far as we can tell, some kind of counterpart or subspecies of the Night Fury. It can shoot powerful blasts of fire that also somehow camouflage it. It’s white in its natural state, but is a difficult target to hit due to its deadly speed and invisibility.” Al hesitated, glancing at him—not for help, because the Heir would never except help from the _runt,_ of course he wouldn’t—but as if to gauge his reaction to what he said next. “…And it usually worked with the Night Fury as some kind of partner.”

_Oh, yeah, because suddenly mentioning the Night Fury is gonna make me fall apart. Put me on a pedestal and call me a goddamn ice sculpture, why don’t you; you’d treat me way less delicately then than you do now._

“Oh, _he’s_ here?”

Ed bristled at the disgust in Lan Fan’s usually even, quiet voice, baring his teeth across the arena at her as Ling snickered, raising his hand. “Hey, Miss Izumi, can I transfer to the class with the _cool_ Vikings? Or, you know, _actual Vikings_ instead of—”

“Fuck _off,_ Ling,” Al bit out.

Yesterday, Ed might have been grateful for it, but now—gods, that was how they saw him if they didn’t hate him, wasn’t it? Someone _weak,_ fragile, in need of protection? Who couldn’t even stand up for himself?

Okay, so he didn’t exactly have a great history with that, but who could blame him? They ganged up on him every time he tried to speak for himself, so he just—just stopped _speaking,_ but he thought Al would be different. That his little brother would pity him _less._

_This is how it starts, isn’t it?_

“I can speak for myself, _Alphonse,”_ he snapped, and some small, mean, terrible part of him relished how Al flinched back, eyes widening with surprise and _hurt. As if you didn’t hurt me first—as if you ALL didn’t—_ “And by the way, Ling, here’s what you fucking missed on _Skrills._ They don’t _breathe_ lightning, they channel it down their spines, they _only_ show up during electrical storms outside of raids, they can _ride lightning bolts_ to reach impossible speeds and blend in with dark clouds, which is at least eighty percent of what makes them so lethal—because, like the Night Fury, _we can’t fucking see it.”_

_Maybe a Viking wouldn’t know all that—wouldn’t care that he didn’t, but—but FUCK HIM, anyhow, fuck them all._

“Oh, not the gods-damned _Night Fury_ again—”

“Of _course_ that’s what you’d get hung up on—”

_“ENOUGH!”_

Ed froze at the roar, as a spear whizzed over their heads and slammed into the top of the arena gateway above, dropping the gate behind them. His teacher was practically _incandescent_ with fury, her eyes blazing as she jabbed her fingers toward them. “To train the mind, you must first train the body,” she hissed, her voice icy. “However, all of you—with the possible exception of Miss Rockbell—have spent _too goddamn long_ training either one or the other, and worst of all, you’re the most _immature_ team of brats I’ve ever had the misfortune to teach!”

Her words rang off the stone of the arena, and only practice kept him from flinching as the others looked ashamed, taken aback, _shocked. Now you see how that feels,_ he thought bitterly, then shook himself. _It won’t last. You know it won’t. No point wishing it on them. Hell, even a_ dragon _yelled at you. That’s gotta be some kind of record._

“Usually, I give new recruits a moment or two to _familiarize_ themselves with the dragons, as Vikings tend to spend too much time training the _body_ in general,” Izumi continued, her voice like _ice,_ an Amestrian winter. “However, it seems I’ll have to revert to my _old_ methods.”

Her hand braced a lever—the lever to the cage of the Monstrous Nightmare, Ed realized, his blood running cold. “You see, most teachers employ tactics right out of the Book of Dragons, making sure their recruits know what they’re dealing with, and practice in drills. _I,_ however—”

Izumi grinned, too-bright and _terrifying_ as she flicked the lever down, and Ed barely managed not to scream as _fire_ roared forth—

“—believe in _learning on the job.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, yeah, I know - I haven't updated this in f o r e v e r; I'm so sorry about that, I really am. I only have so much time and too many ideas, and I've been frantically trying to keep up the chapter buffer for conflicted...that's no excuse, of course, but I hope you can understand '^_^
> 
> ALSO: AL STILL CARES ABOUT ED JUST AS MUCH AS HE DOES IN CAON (WHICH IS TO SAY, A LOT). Ed just feels isolated right now and Al can't dedicate as much time to his brother between training as the Heir and dragon training, and they're both getting pretty frustrated with each other. Ed feels abandoned by the one person he thought would always care for him, and Al feels like there's too much pressure on him to address everything, and to Ed's inner monologue, it feels like Al is forgetting about him.
> 
> Please leave a kudos or a comment if you enjoyed chapter five, and if you like my work, please check out my other fics! My most popular is currently conflicted by the very air i breathe, my favorite to work on was another httyd/fma AU set post-Hidden World called eyes open wide (blinded by the sun now), and a sneak peek of an upcoming au can be found at a duet in code and electron. Thank you so much for reading!


	6. No Such Thing As Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed faces the aftermath of a lot of decisions--of fulfilling his dream of dragon training, of shooting down a dragon that refuses to kill him. One of these things is a lot easier to face than the other (surprise surprise, it's not the training).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "In my experience, there's no such thing as luck." - Star Wars: A New Hope. Ed shooting down the Night Fury was no accident, and it letting him live was far from a coincidence. Everything happens for a reason, and the gods have a plan for the world's worst Viking and the deadliest dragon known to man.

Somehow, he managed _not_ to die.

Hell, he even managed not to be the first one to get blasted—or out, or _dead,_ or whatever the hell Izumi’s rules made someone who got blasted by the very, _very_ pissed off Monstrous Nightmare (and the rules, Izumi had called from where she leaned against the wall, watching them scurry around trying to avoid the Nightmare, were subject to change whenever she wanted them to, which was _just gods-damned fantastic_ ). The dragon’s quite-gods-damned-literal _rampage_ had torn through them all in seconds, scattered them as they grabbed for weapons and tactics and anything they could find that would give them the _slightest_ edge.

Even Ed. Funny thing about being faced with a giant, pissed-off fire-breathing monster was that it turned into “fight or die” pretty damn quickly, and even if dying would’ve made things easier on everyone, Ed had to many goddamn _questions_ to die. Like hell was he going to walk into Niflheim without answer the question of the Night Fury, without _knowing._

 _Curiosity killed the cat,_ they said, but everyone forgot that second part: _satisfaction brought it back._ Except curiosity wasn’t what was hunting him in this cursed fucking arena, it was an angry Monstrous Nightmare who could boil a Viking’s flesh off their bones, and Ed had _zero interest_ in going out like that. Or at all, but given the odds, he probably only had a few years until a dragon decided the tiny fishbone human was worth eating and carried him off.

So yeah. Grabbing shields. Making noise. Memorizing shot limits. Trying _not_ to sneak looks at Al and Winry or replay the first three words Winry had said to him in _months_ through his mind over and over like an _idiot (nope, just you, nope, just you, nope, just you—gee, thanks, Win, like I didn’t already know I was on my own)_ . And watching in horror as the Nightmare lunged for him—for the _second time in two days,_ what the _fuck,_ was it his soap or something? Did metal just smell good to Stoker-Class dragons?—and let fire build up in its throat, his back against the wall and his hands shaking behind the wooden shield—

Then Izumi had _stuck her hand into the Monstrous Nightmare’s mouth,_ fire and all, and wrenched its head upward just before it unleashed its blast. “And _that,”_ she’d gritted out, dragging the scarred dragon, “makes ten blasts, you squirmy bastard.” It has shrieked, spitting embers, but Izumi’s hand was wrapped in the dragonhide glove she used in the forge and the flames couldn’t pierce the fireproof scales of the Zippleback’s hide, even if it _was_ long dead.

Ed had tried to use one of his father’s dragonscale cloaks once upon a time, he’d found himself recalling, had dragged it down to the forge to try and figure out what had made it fireproof. He hadn’t figured it out, just that the flames seemed more effective on one side than the other (he’d wanted to try and test it on dragonfire, if he ever got the chance)—and then Al had found him dipping the cloak in the fires and shrieked, which sent Dad running, and well…it had gone about as well as last night’s conversation. Which meant that he didn’t really listen to Ed and apologized mainly for Al’s sake rather than Ed’s own.

Even the fires of a Stoker-Class dragon—a _Monstrous Nightmare_ at that, the toughest breed of dragon Ed had thought he’d ever have to face until the Night Fury (who he still had to go back for, learn about, there had to be _some_ reason why it didn’t kill him that day, something he was _missing)_ —weren’t enough to pierce that glove, though, and Izumi’s glare sent the dragon skittering back as she dragged it back to its cell and _threw it in_ , ignoring the dragon’s almost childlike (as if it was throwing a _tantrum,_ and he’d nearly burst out into hysterical laughter where he sat pressed against the scorched side of the arena) shrieking and whining.  

“You’ll get another chance, don’t you worry,” she’d barked at it, black eyes blazing as her gaze swept over the other recruits, disappointment clear on her face. Ed hadn’t quite been able stop a flash of triumph in him as the expression so usually reserved for _him_ struck the others. That feeling, brief and bright and beautiful though it had been (gods, he was going to savor that moment _for-fucking-ever,_ because he might have been called out but _so was everyone else,_ which was more than he was used to), faded as soon as Izumi slammed the door on the cell and whirled back to him.

Dark eyes flared like fire as he tried and failed to pull himself to his feet, finding himself shaking too hard to move. _You wanted this—you literally_ wanted _this and now you can’t even move, they were right, they were_ right, _you can’t fight dragons and you_ shouldn’t _fight dragons, but you already figured that out and now it’s_ too goddamn late.

He could feel the gazes of the others boring into him as well, and he held his breath, waiting for the _one adult_ who’d never torn him to shreds before to rip into him at last, to prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that reckless, strange little Edward Elric was too weak and bizarre and un-Viking-like to be a dragon killer. Black eyes flared, sharp and savage and ruthless, and—

“Not bad for a first attempt,” she said, and though her words were directed to the rest of the class—the ones that hadn’t dropped their shields and gone chasing after them like an absolute idiot, only to get pinned against the wall by the Nightmare—Ed couldn’t help relaxing, at least _half_ the tension in his body rushing out of it and leaving him limp. “Not _good,_ mind you—but there’s potential.”

The edge of a _something_ —what the hell, was that a _smirk?_ After nearly killing them all? Oh, he was gonna have a _long_ discussion with her about teaching methods when he got back to the forge—curled at the edge of her mouth, and he watched, dumbfounded as she straightened. “A few things,” she added, “and don’t think that this gets you out of the discussion in the Hall tonight; I expect you two hours after sundown to go over notes from today. This is just a brief overview of tonight.” Ed pushed himself to his feet as she turned her back on him, hands laced behind her.

“Individually, you have varying strengths and weaknesses—recklessness, sloppy movements, slow reaction time, etc.” There was a sharp, clinical edge to her voice, the same that Ed had heard so many times before going over how to properly forge a blade for a broadsword versus a claymore, guiding his hands over the differences in each weapon he learned to create (she had never feared his metal fingers, not like most people—maybe it was because she’d built them, or maybe she trusted that she could teach him how to _make_ something with that hand) until he could tell them at a glance. He’d never thought that she’d teach her Dragon Training classes the same way. “Which is, quite simply, human. We’ll work on lessening those individually, but one of your biggest problems right now is that _together,_ you could cover those weaknesses. It’s why we train you in units; no Viking can truly stand alone and _survive.”_

Oh. Well, that didn’t really bode well for Ed’s future, did it. He swallowed, wishing the axe was back in his hands if only so that he could dig his nails into something other than his palms. Still, he listened as Izumi continued, “Yes, the recruit that does the best in training will win the honor of killing the Light Fury before the entire tribe—” old news, Ed thought dryly, and unimportant to him given…well, all of him “—but none of that matters if you get out on the field and are immediately picked off.”

_Oh, joy._

“So, teamwork,” Izumi declared, clapping her hands together, “and one vital lesson that you all have to remember _no matter what.”_

Ed leaned forward, curious despite himself—only to jolt back as fierce black eyes swept toward him, boring into his. “A dragon,” Izumi bit out, and thought her voice was soft, Ed could hear the steel and fire burning bright beneath it, “will always— _always—_ go for the kill.”

Ed could only stare at her as the other recruits cast him baleful glares, as Winry’s cool stare turned disdainful, as Al wouldn’t meet his eyes—stared, and thought of black claws around his throat that had left inch-deep gashes in rock, fangs that could easily tear him in half, a fire that could destroy catapults with a single blast. Thought of silvery eyes glowing with fury and _grief,_ and a scream that made the sky seem to bleed before night and fire made flesh ran away—and left him alive.

_So why didn’t you?_

* * *

 

There was no sign of the Night Fury. Which, you know, should’ve probably been obvious; what the hell did Ed expect, really? That the thing would’ve stayed where the kid who’d tried to kill him literally a _day_ before had tried to kill it? No one was that stupid, not even a _dragon._

The little clearing he’d found the dragon in was empty, nothing but claw-marks and ashes and the torn-up bola to show it had even existed in the first place—granted, that was pretty damning evidence that _something_ had been there, but there was still no _Night Fury,_ which was kind of the whole reason Ed had ventured back out here anyway. He poked absently at the bola, frowning. “Asshole dragon,” he muttered, trying to remember the direction it had flown off in before he…

 _Before I passed out like a complete and total dumbass._ He scowled, more at himself than anything else (he had no _time_ to be so self-deprecating, he had to be back at the Great Hall…what was it, two hours after sundown? Three? Izumi would _kill_ him if he wasn’t there on time with everyone else, and he wasn’t looking forward to being humiliated in front of everyone twice in the same day—which wasn’t as much as usual, but it was the gods-damned principle of the thing). “Come on,” he whispered, eyes scanning the tree—it hadn’t gone toward that massive boulder thing, or back the way he’d come, which left…just about every possible direction, with no clue as to where it had gone.

_Tossing the dice, then._

Well, he was already at just about rock-bottom. What else did he have to lose?  

 _What’s left of Al’s respect, a few scraps of Dad’s trust, and just a pinch of Teacher’s hope._ He felt the corner of his mouth tug up into a rueful grin. _So not much._

He dragged his heel through the dirt, hopping unsteadily backwards as it left a line in the dust, before doing another, and another, and another, until four lines pointed out in four different directions, like a sort of compass. Absently, he wished he’d brought his map with him; he’d brought his notebook just in case he _did_ find the thing, but the map was locked up in his only drawer and he didn’t feel like digging through it and potentially being caught by an irritated Alphonse.

“Alright, four zones of ground to cover in…” He squinted up through the trees, trying to gauge the sun’s position. _Ugh, I hate this…next time the traders come in I’ll have to ask them if they found anything useful for timekeeping. It looks…a little past noon?_ “Seven hours,” he decided, clapping his hands together determinedly. _So that gives me about an hour and a half to cover each one…and to come back here and cross them off as I go. So maybe an hour, then, so I have time to get back._

 _Now I just have to actually pick a direction._ Ed poked thoughtfully at the one heading back up and around toward the cliffs thoughtfully—if he was a dragon, he definitely would’ve gone there; it was probably easiest to fly off of something high like that. But the dragon—the dragon had looked like it was having _trouble_ flying ( _because of you,_ his mind hissed, and he pushed the thought away with a scowl), so that was probably a no-go. The next went too close to Amestris for any dragon to head that way and survive, and if a Night Fury had been killed, the whole village would’ve been yelling about it (a _nd probably believing them instead of me, because who would ever believe the runt?)._

The third and the fourth…well, one ran into a thicket of thorns that, while possible to avoid, would take a while to get around, and Ed already had enough bruises and scratches from this morning. _Save that one for last, then,_ he decided, mentally crossing that one off the list and peering down the line that pointed into a mostly-clear path laden with ivy and roots and moss—lush and green and almost welcoming.

 _I’m pretty sure there’s a poem from the mainland about easy, pretty-looking paths._ He grimaced, instinctively grabbing for the knife he kept tucked inside his jacket. _And not going down them because bad things happen._

 _Then again, when the hell have I ever followed directions_ , _according to my dad?_

 He snorted at the thought, picking his way through roots and ivy and down a winding slope, even as unease started brewing in his belly. _If I get caught—if I get caught, I’ll be disowned, I’ll be killed, exiled, Al will hate me and I’ll be just another cautionary tale about why runts should be floated out to sea when they’re born—_

“Shut up,  Ed,” he muttered to himself, ducking around a massive boulder. _You’ve known this since you were seven; why the hell are you freaking out about it now?_ Besides, no one knew these woods better than him; if someone wanted to track him, they’d have to delve into the heart of the forest, and Ed would know _damn_ well if someone was trying. “No one’s gonna find out and nothing’s gonna happen; hell, you probably won’t even _find_ it.”

_And if you do…_

_Well, who knows what the hell will happen?_

Ed yelped as he stumbled over a loose patch of gravel, feet scrabbling at the ground for purchase. A curse escaped him as his back slammed into the rock, a shock of pain followed by a dull ache radiating through his back. “Son of a rat-eating, troll-infested—” He winced, pushing off the rock and rubbing at the soreness with his flesh hand, gaze sweeping viciously over the surroundings forested slopes—

_And a secret tunnel?_

The pain working its way through his back forgotten (well, not entirely forgotten, ‘cause _ow,_ but at least _ignored_ for now), Ed blinked in confusion before peering at it again, furrowing his brow. Maybe “secret tunnel” was a bit of a romantic term, but it definitely _looked_ like one, a tiny space caught between a rocky rise and the boulder, lined with moss and guarded by sprawling roots from the trees across hills reaching beyond. _That’s definitely…suspicious._ He glanced over his shoulder warily, trying (and failing) to crush the curiosity in his chest. _And probably a dragon lair. But also…really, really cool-looking, and I’m_ searching _for a dragon anyway…_

 _Fuck it._ Curiosity and hope sending icy, electric tingles through his chest, Ed skidded down the little slope, ducking carefully through the little tunnel. There wasn’t _much_ of a tunnel, he realized quickly, slipping through it to the other side, more of a gap between two overhangs just big enough for a fifteen-year-old Viking runt to slip through, but when it opened _up…_

Well, it was something out of a goddamn storybook, a cove sunk deep into the forest. Towering evergreens that didn’t quite breach the top of the walls nature itself had created dotted ground covered in springy green grass, boulders creating outcroppings and overhangs along the outer ridge that he could settle on. An idllyic lake reflected the sky above with mirror-bright accuracy, down to the clouds drifting through and the needles of the fir trees.

It was beautiful, but there was no Night Fury—and he’d just wasted ten minutes for a stupid hideout that didn’t even matter without the dragon there to learn from. “This was stupid,” he mumbled, sliding a tired hand over his brow and kicking at one of the flat, round black pebbles scattered along the lichen-covered stone he was balanced on.

Flat, round black pebbles that, he realized a second before he turned to leave, _exactly_ matched the ones near the clearing where the Night Fury had crashed in the first place. Flat, round black pebbles that probably weren’t pebbles at all, but were— _scales._

Ed crouched, that fading excitement fizzling back to life like a dying torch lit in the fires of Valhalla—and fell back into the shadows with a gasp as night incarnate rushed up and over him, a shriek tearing from its throat. Dark claws scrabbled at the rock desperately, and Ed instinctively clutched at his pounding heart, one hand going to the dagger at his side as it skidded back down, howling in…in _frustration._

As though the Night Fury really _hadn’t_ seen him, wasn’t hunting him or mad at him, as if—as if it had tried to get out of here before and failed. And then _kept failing._

_I know how that feels._

He pushed the traitorous thought away quickly, scrambling forward and pulling his notebook from the pocket within his jacket as it winged its way across the lake, barely avoiding crashing into the water. A grin was spreading across his face despite himself, even as the dragon launched itself up once, twice, and crashed to the ground again and again, screaming in fury, excitement turning to triumph. It took a moment to stop his hand from trembling as he swept the pencil across the page, dark lines spiraling out and sweeping into broad wings, into a sleek black body, into a powerful tail with a set of two fins on it.

Into a Night Fury. Into _the_ Night Fury, the only Night Fury they’d ever even _heard_ of, the dragon no one had ever seen—finally recorded on paper. _Because_ _I, stupid, obsessive, weak little Edward Elric found it—I really found it, take_ that, _Ling, and take_ that, _everyone who thinks my maps are stupid, because I FOUND THE NIGHT FURY—_

That elation, though…it started to _dim_ as the dragon slunk toward the lake, confusion and… _sympathy,_ of all things, replacing it. Silver eyes glowed with a strange _loneliness_ that Ed could make out even from this distance, tail swishing over the ground as it lapped at the water in the lake— _freshwater, then. That’s good. At least it won’t die._

He blinked at himself after a moment, surprised by his own thoughts. Yesterday— _literally just yesterday,_ less than twenty-four hours ago—he’d been itching to kill this dragon, and now…well, now that he knew he couldn’t, he really _didn’t_ want it to die. And as long as it was here, on the ground, it was a target for humans—

“But that doesn’t make sense,” he murmured a second later, furrowing his brow as he glanced between his sketch and the beast trying and failing to grab a fish out of the lake. “If you can get out, why are you…why are you still _here?_ Why don’t you just…fly away?” _If someone else found you…_

Had he damaged its wings or something? Quickly, Ed swept a look up and down the dragon; there were no scratches, no scars on those scales as black as night, no difference between the wings he’d drawn and the real ones besides the fact that one set was flesh and the other was paper and ink. He’d gotten the number of ear-flap-things on the head right (so those _probably_ didn’t help it fly, but it was best to cover all your bases, right?). The two fins at the base of the tail were intact, the tiny budding spines along its back in place, and the ones at the end of the tail…huh. _You only have one._

Hesitantly, he rubbed out the tailfin on the left, brushing the crumbs of charcoal and ash off his paper. _So that’s why…those help you fly, huh? And I…I took one from you._ Subconsciously, he flexed the fingers of his automail hand, the steel cold beneath the glove he wore—a dragon had taken his arm from him, and he’d taken flight from a dragon. It should’ve been equivalent, should’ve been retribution, but...it didn’t _feel_ like it.

 “You’re kind of like me, aren’t you?” he whispered, leaning forward—and _knocking his pencil off the edge._

It was such a tiny noise. No human would’ve possibly heard it if they weren’t paying attention. Hell, most animals would’ve probably ignored it…but the Night Fury lifted its head, silver eyes widening as rose to his feet. Ed tensed, heart in his throat, waiting for one of those blasts that had decimated stone buildings, that turned entire sections of the village to smoking ruins—froze, and stared into those brilliant eyes, into the suspicion that turned into a wary recognition.

 _You are like me,_ the dragon’s gaze seemed to say. _And like calls to like._

_Like calls to like._

Ed watched the Night Fury, and the Night Fury watched him, until the sun came down and rain began to pour, and he finally dared to break that bright, burning gaze. He could’ve sworn he heard the dragon snort as he scrambled out of the cove, could’ve sworn that loneliness returned to its gaze as he gathered his things and began slogging through the now-muddy trail to the Great Hall. Could’ve called that emotion in his chest _guilt,_ heavy and painful, for abandoning the dragon to its prison.

 _Like calls to like,_ the pound of the rain reminded him as the lights of the village came into view, and Ed sighed, set his shoulders, and stalked through the storm to the gathering of his class. _Like calls to like, and you will be back._

Somehow, the thought didn’t seem like a threat, didn’t send fear shooting through his heart as he clambered up the stone steps to the Great Hall. No, it felt…like _hope._ Like a promise.

And Ed intended to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised to see me? It's been a while since I've updated this one, but I've finally got my mojo back, haha! Next chapter is the Forbidden Friendship scene, and I'm so, so excited for it. I'm so ready for this dumb Viking baby and his dragon dad to finally meet! Leave a comment or a kudos if you enjoyed it, and I'll see you next chapter!


	7. Wither Thou Goest, I Will Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a disastrous Dragon Training lesson, Ed ventures down to the cove to investigate his new dragon-acquaintance. Investigation, however, turns into something a whole more interesting when the dragon doesn't react anything like a dragon should.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from the _parabatai_ oath from the Shadowhunter Chronicles series--"Wither thou goest, I will go, where thou diest, I will die." It refers to a sort of platonic-soulmate bond between two warriors, and there's really no better descriptor for these two. Also, FORBIDDEN FRIENDSHIP SCENE!

_Kill on sight, kill on sight, kill on sight._

The words echoed in his mind as he hurried down the trail, following the path he’d worn through the undergrowth down to the tiny crack in the stone walls hiding the cove. He grimaced, tightening his hand around the shield—he wasn’t stupid enough to seek out a Night Fury _unarmed,_ especially with two (equally disastrous) sessions of Dragon Training under his belt. If there was one thing he’d remember from that first…well, absolute _mess_ of a training session, it was that if he could choose between a sword and a shield, he was always to take the shield.

Granted, a wooden shield wouldn’t do much against Night Fury blasts, or the flames of a Monstrous Nightmare, or the lightning of a Skrill. Really, the only things the shield could defend against were the spikes that flew from the tails of Deadly Nadders and Razorwhips. Maybe if he plated it in metal (if they’d ever have _enough_ metal to spare for covering shields, to use for more than dragon-killing weapons), it’d hold up a little better…

He shook his head with a scowl, automail fingers curling a little more tightly around the tail of the salmon he’d snatched from the carts the fishermen had brought up. _Quit that,_ he scolded himself, skidding down the slope toward the familiar boulder. _You’ve gotta stop building crazy stuff and doing…everything that got you here, I guess. Hell, you shouldn’t even be here right now—Winry would kill you if she knew._ Al _might kill you if he knew._

His throat tingled, closed up for a second, as though her warhammer was set upon it again, her lips pulled back in a snarl as she looked at him with pure unbridled fury. _Is this some kind of a joke to you?_

No, it wasn’t—it had _never_ been a joke to him, she knew that, she’d known _him_ once upon a time before—before people started thinking it was his fault Mom died and Dad replaced him, she should have known that this was the _furthest_ thing from a joke—

_Our parents’ war is about to become ours._

Did she really think he didn’t know that? He’d lost the most to this goddamn war out of _any_ of them—his arm, his mom, his father’s love, his brother’s respect, his reputation, his friends. It had already _been_ his war for the longest time, what right did she have to condescend to him, they’d _both_ lost people, gods-damnit, _why does she hate me—_

_Figure out which side you’re on._

He knew—he _did_ know, he _did._ He wasn’t going to _stop fighting,_ he wasn’t going to step out of the war and pretend he hadn’t lost anything, that _they_ hadn’t lost anything just because he was _curious._ And since when was wanting to know more a crime, huh? Had the tribe always been like this—kill first, ask questions never?

Maybe it had always been like that. Maybe he’d just never had a reason to question it until now.

Maybe he should _focus_ if he wanted to find the Night Fury and learn from it.

He exhaled roughly, giving his head a brisk shake as he tightened his grip around the wooden shield he’d… _liberated_ from the Arena. In his other hand—his _metal_ hand, because fish were slimy and gross and he did _not_ want to be scrubbing that stuff off his flesh hand for hours on end—he clutched a raw salmon. Prayers never did him much good, but he hoped to the gods that it would be enough to tide the Night Fury over and keep _him_ from being dinner.

 _Not that there’s much I can do if it does,_ he admitted to himself—before cursing as his shield wedged itself between two rocks in the tunnel. “Oh, come _on…”_ He pulled at it experimentally, a scowl crossing his face as it adamantly refused to budge.

 _If you have a choice between a sword and a shield, take the shield,_ Teacher had said. Well, he’d done that, and now he had neither. “Just my luck,” he muttered, frowning up at the sky. There wasn’t a single cloud, but he wouldn’t put it past the gods to make it start thundering and raining as soon as he stepped into the cove.

Well, he’d stayed out in the stupid rain before, and he’d do it again! For…research? Science? _Something_ like that, maybe. Probably.

Definitely not because he was lonely or anything. Or because he was tired of being looked at like a freak and a monster, of being either second best or nothing at all. Or because no one would listen and no one would _care_ that the dragon hadn’t killed him, had the chance to do so _twice_ and just scolded and watched him instead. Definitely, _definitely_ not any of those things.

He peered over the top of the shield, forced to stand on tiptoe (being short _sucked)_ to see over it. No sign of the Night Fury, but that didn’t mean much; if there was _anything_ the Book of Dragons’ information (or lack thereof— _speed unknown, size unknown, hide and pray it does not find you_ ) on Night Furies had taught him, it was that they were _incredibly good_ at being invisible, even in daylight.

Except he’d seen one. He’d _drawn_ one, had the sketch in the same notebook that was clutched to his chest even now; he’d been about to leave it at home, but if anyone looked _through_ it…they’d see a dragon. Even if they _didn’t_ know it was a Night Fury, it was still suspicious—and after today’s disaster of a class, everyone was probably looking for any excuse to crucify him.

Maybe…maybe even Al.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _Don’t think about that, idiot. It’s—it’s going to be fine._ Al _deserved_ to shine, to become that supernova, the wildfire that would carve a new path, a new future for their people. Ed would be fine working from the shadows, or vanishing entirely. He _would._ He wasn’t— _jealous._

 _Focus._ He took a deep breath and ducked beneath the shield, clutching the fish in his metal hand as he crept into the cove. It was even lovelier now that he was actually _inside_ it rather than looking down from above; the green that covered the ground was more moss than grass, spring and soft, the lakewater as clear as diamonds and probably as cool as spring rain. Even the rocks dripped with smooth moss and lichen, fir trees with gnarled, ancient trunks dotting the moss-blanketed ground.

It was peaceful, beautiful—and, he reminded himself sharply before he could relax too much, contained the most dangerous dragon in the Archipelago. _Stay alert. Even if it didn’t kill you before—twice, now, about both times when it had every opportunity, so I guess Teacher was wrong about that—it’s still trapped and probably very, very angry about that, and no one reacts well to being trapped._

Then he heard the scrape of claws over stone, and his blood froze in his veins. His bravado went up in smoke as a low, rumbling growl echoed from behind. _Oh, gods, this was definitely a terrible idea._

He turned in a slow circle—and jolted back instinctively at the sight of scales of such deep black that they seemed to absorb all the surrounding light. Silver eyes glared down at him as the Night Fury picked its way down from a rocky outcropping, dropping to the ground and prowling toward him. Its pupils contracted into narrow, vicious slits and he couldn’t keep his hands from shaking as he held the fish out to it.

_Night Fury._

He swallowed thickly as it approached, slinking low to the ground ( _almost like it was hiding a wound, thinking it was going to get hurt—like_ Ed _was a threat)_ . Its pupils dilated ever so slightly at the sight of the food, its expression going from disdain and—and a little bit of _fear—_ to curiosity.

_Speed: unknown. Size: unknown._

It tilted its head, a strange warble coming from its throat as it sidled closer, silver eyes unnaturally bright. Its mouth slowly opened, revealing a broad pink tongue, before it jolted back with a hiss, eyes narrowing.

_The unholy offspring of lightning and death itself._

It took Ed a second to piece together why the dragon seemed suddenly _angry_ (and… _afraid)_ . Slowly, he dipped his fingers into the inner pockets of his jacket, drawing free the knife. Its pupils contracted into tiny, tiny slits—and that was definitely fear on its…muzzle? face? (it took Ed a moment to figure out why, because it was such a _tiny_ knife—but it _was_ the same dagger he’d threatened to cut the dragon’s heart out with) as it jerked its head toward the lake.

Ed swallowed thickly. _Defenseless, gonna die, leap of faith—_ and tossed it in.

Almost immediately, its pupils dilated again and it dropped back onto its haunches, strange ear-fins pricked up curiously. It looked…almost _cute._

_Your only chance: hide and pray it does not find you._

Well, it had found him…and wasn’t killing him for the third time now, so that meant the Book of Dragons was wrong—about this one, at least. Maybe not about every dragon, but the Night Fury was edging closer, silver eyes wide and almost _friendly._ Ed furrowed his brow as it leaned in, pupils darting between him and the fish as if waiting for the blow and its mouth open…with no teeth in sight.

“Toothless,” he murmured, tilted his head as it stretched its neck a little further, paws kneading the mossy ground gently. “I could’ve sworn you had—”

Sharp, short white fangs snapped out of its gums and sank into the fish, yanking it out of his hand. Ed let out an undignified (and definitely un-Viking-ish, though that pretty much described everything he did and was and— _just leave it, Elric, don’t be such a baby)_ squeal of fright and jumped back as it tossed its head back and gulped it down like a bird. “Teeth,” he squeaked lamely.

 _Retractable teeth. That’s actually…really, really cool._ A _lot_ of things about dragons were really fucking cool, now that he thought about it. Spike-shooting tails? Scales that could set themselves on fire at will? Two-headed explosive-gas-breathing dragons? Sure, when they were trying to _kill_ you, it was terrifying, but maybe…

A dark head was suddenly shoved into his space, a low, growling rumble pouring from its throat. Ed flinched back with another undignified squeak, stumbling back as it prowled forward, nostrils flaring and pupils narrowing to slits. “Wait--nonono--” He tripped, back aching as it slammed against a boulder. “I--I don’t have any more!”

 _I’m gonna die,_ he realized as his back pressed against the stone, the dragon rising up and looming over him like some great spectre of death, like the messenger of Hel herself come to carry him away to Helheim (he didn’t have any illusions about where he was going for the afterlife--not wicked enough for Niflheim, not good enough for Valhalla). _I was wrong and I fucked up and made it mad and I really am gonna die--_

There was a strange, liquidy retching noise, and Ed’s thoughts of death and dragons and demons were dispelled as the Night Fury (quite proudly, as if patting itself on the back for doing such a good deed) deposited half of the fish in Ed’s lap. He stared at it, slimy scales and dragon drool soaking into his lap as the Night Fury sat back on its haunches, looking distinctly pleased with itself. “Uh…”

Slowly, unsteadily, he pushed himself into a proper sitting position. The dragon’s gaze didn’t falter, silver eyes glowing faintly as it blinked at him.

He wasn’t dead.

He wasn’t dead, and the dragon had…had spat half a fish into his lap. Was this another part of the scolding it’d given him the day he spared it? Was he going to get screamed at by the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself _again?_

 _At least it’s the tail end_ , he thought, picking it up warily. He wasn’t sure he’d be able to deal with giant, dead fish eyes staring at him. Especially not after the dragon’s weird non-threatening behavior, with the fact that it backed him against a rock for the express purpose of spitting half its food on him (some dramatic part of him bemoaned the stains on his pants that he was certain wouldn’t wash out) and seemed as scared of him as he was of it (which was ridiculous, because he was literally the least threatening person in the world, let alone on this tiny island). He looked back up at the dragon, arching an eyebrow.

It looked at him placidly, before looking at the fish and then back up at him, making a tiny warbling sound. Ed stared at it in confusion, before it clicked-- _some genius I am,_ he thought wryly, and then blanched, because _oh gods it wants me to eat raw fish._ He scowled, fingers digging into the tiny fish scales (he couldn’t help wondering if dragon scales felt the same way, tiny ridges and blades over skin, or if they were layered into an unshakable armor--if the Night Fury was made of fire and shadows rather than scales and flesh), ready to hurl it back at the creature--

And then he faltered, because the dragon…was _sharing._

The Night Fury, a beast from a species notorious for their greed, their cruelty, their selfishness, had been given a single fish after days of trying and failing to catch the ones in the lake--had been given a tiny, paltry attempt at a peace offering, given what probably amounted to a single bite for a creature of its size…and it was _sharing._ It had made the conscious choice to offer him half of its meal, which meant that he was _right_. That it really wasn’t a dumb animal after all.

And, well, Ed was an asshole, but he wasn’t _that_ much of an asshole. He knew what it was like to have a peace offering thrown back in your face ( _friendship can’t be bought, Elric,_ Lan Fan’s voice echoed disdainfully, every bit as cold as it was when he was ten and desperate for a friend and offered to sharpen her favorite sword free of charge. He thought maybe if he was nice to people, they’d be nice back, but they just got… _meaner_ , and then whispered _I told you so_ when he got angrier as he got older). Mentally, he apologized to his stomach for the suffering he was about to cause it, before closing his eyes and biting into the fish.

_Gross. So gross._

He lifted his head, forcing himself to meet the dragon’s eyes as it made an approving sound, then made a swallowing motion. _Oh, come on…_ He obeyed reluctantly, shuddering as the slimy, mostly-tasteless flesh slid down his throat. _Ew, ew, ew…_

Another noise came from the dragon’s throat--like someone blowing a raspberry and saying _yuck_ at the same time, as though it was trying to mimic the involuntary sound that Ed made when he bit into _raw fish (double, triple, quadruple ew)._ He gazed up at it for a moment--the silver eyes, the dark scales that glittered with crushed rubies in the sunlight, the lean muscle and the intrigued perking of those strange “ears”.

It looked… _cute._ Friendly. And not remotely like the monstrous creature that the Book of Dragons said it was. 

His lips quirked up faintly at the corners, before pulling into a stunningly easy grin, the first genuine smile he’d offered _anyone_ in…months. Years, maybe. It was traitorous, and he should’ve killed the dragon, should be doing anything _but_ sitting here and sharing food with it and smiling at it, but he felt…happy.

Which was weird in itself. And it was probably sad that the feeling of genuine happiness made him feel so surprised, that he could only find it by _betraying his people,_ but he was…he was _smiling,_ and he felt safe and content, and this was one tiny bit of joy that no one could ruin because no one else even knew it existed. 

There was another strange noise, wet and _weird,_ like the dragon was licking its lips. He looked up worriedly, and-- _stared._

Because the Night Fury’s teeth were retracted, and its lipless mouth was slowly, steadily pulling into the same shape as his--a wobbly, toothless version of his own smile, but a smile all the same. A smile on a dragon’s face. A wary, hesitant attempt at a smile, but a shockingly _human_ one.

If Ed had doubted the Night Fury’s “killer instinct” before, well…now he _knew_ the Book was wrong. That dragons weren’t quite what people said they were. Weren’t fundamentally monsters.

_Just like me._

Hesitantly, he pushed himself to his feet and reached toward it, automail fingers trembling as he edged toward the smiling dragon. Silver eyes flicked toward him, and teeth snapped out of pink gums, its smile turning into a snarl as it whisked itself around and winged unsteadily over to a tiny grove of trees. 

Ed watched, spellbound, as it breathed a low flame to heat the ground beneath it before curling up on the scorched earth. _Slowly,_ he reminded himself, trotting after it. _You’re still human and it’s still a dragon. Just ‘cause it’s not as scary for you doesn’t mean it’s not scared_ of _you._

After all, dragons had killed hundreds of Vikings--but Vikings returned the favor with thousands of dead dragons. Maybe Vikings were the dragons’ monsters.

He settled near it--distinctly in its space, but far enough away that it could move away without feeling threatened. It didn’t seem to notice him, silver eyes fixed on a bird that flitted between the trees with a forlorn look that made guilt settle heavy in his chest. _I took that from it. I took its freedom, and when I tried to fix it, it just ended up trapped--_

A puff of smoke blew into his face and he yelped, batting it away. The Night Fury’s gaze was on him now, disgruntled and irritated and--so quickly he might have imagined it--a tiny flash of amusement, too. Silver eyes winked at him, and he raised a hand in an awkward greeting, trying to contain the bubbling excitement of _discovery._ The dragon just _rolled its eyes--_ like a human!--and huffed, rolling grumpily away from him and swishing its one-finned tail in front of its face.

A tail that he was nearly close enough to touch, if he wanted to. And he _really, really_ wanted to, especially since he was certain now that the Night Fury wouldn’t attack him unless he tried to hurt it. Especially since he knew that it knew the difference between a teenager being stupid and someone being malicious.

Gods, he was so glad he was the one who found it. If Al had, if Winry had, if Ling or Mei or Lan Fan had, the sleek, intelligent creature before him now would probably be _dead._

He scooted forward, reaching forward to brush the tail--and scrambled to his feet as it swished its fin away, looking utterly unamused and unsurprised. He felt a little like he was caught with his hand in the cookie jar (not that he’d had cookies since--well, since Mom died; with the raids getting worse, resources for baking were hard to come by), but he couldn’t help sneaking a glance at the Night Fury as it padded away.

The sun was high in the sky, but he could stay a little longer. After all, no one would miss him.

***

The sky was dusted with pink clouds when the Night Fury woke from its doze. Ed, bored of reading and exploring and investigating the little round, black scales (he couldn’t wait until he got to the forge, until he could test their heat resistance--fireproof armor could change _everything)_ , had returned to his sketchbook--and then, unwilling to mar the pages with anything half-assed until the traders got in with new ink and paper for the winter months, he’d turned to etching shapes into the dirt with a stick.

He should’ve gotten bored hours ago, he thought absently, perched on a rock as he carefully sketched the shape of a face into the ground. Silence unnerved him, made him feel like he was being stared at, whispered about, but too much noise made everything go fuzzy. This was far closer to the former than the latter, but here in the cove with no one but the dragon for company, he felt…safe. Unjudged, for once. Like the labels of _runt, failure, ex-Heir, useless_ had peeled away and given him permission to just _be._  

Quietly, he etched the long, sleek “ears” onto the dragon’s head, attaching it to a neck and shoulders that flowed into the rest of its striking body--and froze when a shadow fell over him. A shadow that let out a low, curious warbling noise, peering over his shoulder as he added leaf-shaped eyes with wide pupils. 

 _Don’t startle it, just keep working, just--oh, no, what is it_ doing--

Ed looked up just in time to see the Night Fury rip _an actual fucking sapling_ out of the _actual fucking ground._ “What are y--” he started, eyes widening as it dragged the thing across the ground, but the words died in his mouth as it looped around, again and again and again.

It was _drawing._

The Night Fury, unholy offspring of lightning and death itself, the thing that went bump in the night, every Viking’s worst nightmare, was _drawing._

He stared at it in shock, barely ducking in time as dead leaves showered him, branches sweeping over his head. The Night Fury barely spared him a glance as it poked a dot into the ground with the sapling before dropping it, a proud warble coming from its throat as Ed stood slowly, trapped in a maze of swirling lines.

Slowly, hesitantly, he began to cross out of it--and flinched when the dragon snarled, ears flattening. He glanced up at it, and then down to where his foot had…had stepped on one of the lines. _It…doesn’t want me to mess it up?_

Testing this theory, he lifted his foot, eyes widening as the snarl turned into a purr--and then back into a snarl when he stepped on the line again. Move off the line, purr, step on it, snarl, move, purr, step, snarl--step _over_ it, and the Night Fury’s warbling took on an encouraging edge, ears pricking up. Ed dared to smile over his shoulder at the powerful creature, carefully stepping over each line. It spun into a whirling dance, twisting and spiraling across the maze of lines, swirling and spinning and leaping until--

Warm breath stirred hairs pulled loose from his braid, the faint scent of ozone filling his nostrils. Every thought, every movement slowed as he turned, gazing up into solemn, glowing silver eyes like twin stars pulled down from Odin’s night sky. In the mirrors of silver, he could see his own eyes, shining golden suns that glowed like Frey had set them alight himself.

Gold and silver, reflections of each other. 

_Like calls to like._

Guided by an instinct he didn’t understand, Ed lifted his hand--flesh, not metal--and turned his head away. Held it out, and offered _everything--_ mind, body, soul--to the dragon. 

To--

Warm scales pressed into Ed’s hand, and lightning shot down his spine, starlight exploding behind his closed eyelids. He could see--feel- _-he was--_

_Soaring up and up and up, reveling in the feeling of absolute freedom, nothing but him and the stars and--_

_Dark wings beneath him, silver eyes glowing like new stars, born of two souls, a tail of black and scarlet trailing behind them and--_

_He had never been alone, would never feel alone again, because he was here with the twin of his soul and they were togethertogethertogether--_

_Light and dark sun and moon gold and silver_

_Ed and--and--and--_

“Roy,” Ed croaked, and he opened his eyes to find tears on his cheeks, the Night Fury opening silver eyes slowly and blinking at him with something like awe. “Your name is Roy.”

The Night Fury blinked again--and then a low, rich voice purred, _“Hatchling.”_

Ed stared, before scowling despite the tears dripping down his face. “My name’s _Ed_.”

Fondness flickered in the dragon’s gaze, and Ed somehow knew what he was going to say before he drawled smugly, _“Hatchling.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this chapter took so long! Hope it being extra-long made up for it. Leave a comment and a kudos if you liked it, and I'll see you next update!


	8. Pretending That It Barely Stings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ed faces a class of dragon-killers after bonding with the first person--or dragon--to ever accept him as-is, no strings attached. Not that he focuses much on what they're saying now, not with his dragon sifting through his past and dredging up everything he tried to forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is a lyric from [Waiting In The Wings](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87HAEkf_Li0&t=8s) by Eden Espinosa, which quite nicely sums up Ed's "place" in this story. He knows he's meant for more, but he's always outshined, especially by the people he loves most. Angst ahead, folks ;)

_ “Hatchling.” _

Ed twitched at the insistent voice in his head, glaring down at his chicken as his classmates bickered and laughed around the fire. Having a dragon connected to your thoughts and emotions--if that was even what this… _ insanity  _ was--wasn’t all it was cracked up to be (not that it was exactly cracked up to be anything, since, you know, it was  _ still treason). Especially  _ when that dragon was lonely and distinctly upset at being left behind, and tried to guilt-trip him into going back to the cove.   _ “Shut up.” _

There was a flick of indignance on the other side of the strange bond between them, and Roy’s sulky voice came back a moment later.  _ “No.” _

Goddamnit. Why had he expected anything else?

The moments directly after that--that  _ connection  _ had passed in a blur. The Night Fury  _ (“My name is Roy, stupid hatchling.”)  _ had tried to keep him there, looking so lonely and hopeful that it made Ed’s heart twist. He’d spent hours curled under a broad wing, listening to a pulsing heartbeat thundering louder than every insult his people had ever spat at him, had nearly cried when he dragged himself away.

He hadn’t wanted to go.

He hadn’t wanted to go  _ back.  _ To go home, where love always came with a price and the people he was betraying by being there would loathe him whether they knew about the Night Fury or not. He wanted to know more about the dragon, about the newborn link between their minds ( _ souls?),  _ about why and how and  _ who.  _

He hadn’t forgiven them for the raids (for taking his arm, his pride, his  _ mom) _ , but this was proof. The voice in his head, the soul attached to his, was  _ proof  _ that dragons weren’t what people thought they were. This was proof that he was right, and dragons  _ didn’t  _ always go for the kill. That they were--or at least could be--as intelligent as humans. Or maybe that his Night Fury was. Ed didn’t know which one was the truth, but the fact that there was even the  _ slightest  _ sign that he’d been right about something ( _ for once)  _ made some long-dead kernel of hope start to unfurl, like the petals of a flower.

_ Or…like wings. _

Absently, he picked at his food, Izumi’s tales of dragon-fighting falling flat in light of the bond attaching his soul to another’s. The others were listening raptly, even Winry, though her gaze was sharp and focused rather than excited.  _ When was the last time I saw her smile?  _ he wondered, watching the firelight cast strange shadows on her face, gilding her blonde hair gold and making orange flames dance in the heart of her blue, blue eyes.  _ Before her parents died? After the raids got worse? When she got promoted to the fire squad? _

They’d been friends, once, even though the others had hated him, had laughed at him and picked on him. Winry had been his stalwart ally, his…his  _ best friend,  _ before even Al. She’d listened to him ramble about his ideas and threw rocks at the kids who picked on him and brought him over to her house for dinner when his dad was too busy Chiefing and Al was being looked after by someone else. She’d treated him like a person instead of a mistake, even when people started whispering about him.

He’d thought…he’d thought they’d have each other’s backs forever. He even started crushing on her when they turned ten (not that that had changed since)--which was when everything had gone wrong.

Sara and Urey Rockbell had died at the claws of a Monstrous Nightmare, the same one that they’d fought three days ago. Ed had approached her after the funeral, bearing a newly-sharpened axe he’d made in hopes of making her smile, or at least helping her not feel like the world was falling apart around her. He’d held it out to her shyly, an apology already on his lips--

And she’d turned around and punched him in the face.

_ Stay away from me,  _ she’d spat as he’d stared up at her, crumpled to the ground in shock with tears of pain and betrayal starting to well in his eyes. Her own eyes had been dry, red-rimmed and filled with  _ hate.  _ He’d felt…he was  _ afraid  _ of her, for the first time ever.  _ This is all your fault. _

She’d stormed away, the axe embedded in the ground between them.

Ed had watched her go, his pride smarting, his heart broken, before bearing the weapon home and throwing it into the fire. 

She’d mellowed a bit, since--she’d never apologized, and he’d never asked her to, but she didn’t seem to hate him. She just…tolerated him. Bore his presence like his father did, like Al was starting to. It didn’t make it hurt any less. It didn’t make him stop wishing things were different.

That  _ he  _ was different. Was good enough.     __

Things had gotten worse--his crush, for example, had only grown (which  _ sucked  _ because it was  _ never going to happen),  _ and Winry’s disdain had seemed to increase with it.  _ This is my luck,  _ he thought gloomily, staring at the slightly-burnt chicken on his plate.  _ No friends except for a fucking  _ dragon,  _ a crush that isn’t going anywhere, and a brother that’s ashamed of me. My life is fan-fucking-tastic. _

_ “I will bite her,”  _ Roy declared, sounding distinctly grumpy.

_ “You absolutely will  _ not,” he hissed back, snapping out of his musings with a jolt.  _ “Why the hell do you want to bite her, anyways? She hasn’t done shit to you!” _

There was a grumbling noise on the other side of the strange bond, before a flicker of images came through. That was another weird, interesting thing about the dragon--he was clearly as intelligent as Ed was, but he used pictures and sensations to communicate just as clearly as words. It made sense, he supposed, considering that they were different species, but it was still  _ weird  _ on this end. Walking back from the cove, he’d gotten ten different pictures of fish until he realized that the bastard of a dragon was giving him a fucking  _ shopping list,  _ and he’d spent the rest of the trek trying to explain to the hungry Roy that he couldn’t just steal fish from the village’s storerooms…while planning to steal from the village’s storerooms. He couldn’t just let his new friend starve, right? They brought in loads of fish every year. Surely one or two missing couldn’t hurt. 

But this image wasn’t of fish, or food, or any scrap of food Ed was supposed to bring. It was…it was  _ him,  _ ten years old and curled up in the forge, his thin shoulders shaking as he stared at the flames, the shadows of the embers making his bruised jaw look misshapen and strange. In the heart of the crackling fire, an axe burned, and he choked on a gasp as unbelievable melancholy swept over him  _ again-- _

“ _ Hurt you,”  _ Roy growled as he blinked at the memory, horrified.  _ Is that--how I looked? Hopeless and--and  _ scared  _ like that?  _ Surely it hadn’t been that bad. Maybe Roy was overreacting, skewing the memories. From what Ed had seen of  _ his  _ memories ( _ powerful, free, fragile, chained, always surrounded and always alone, too weak and too strong and too much),  _ he was a pretty melodramatic perso--er, dragon. That was probably it. That  _ had  _ to be it.  _ “Still hurts you. Gonna bite her.” _

_ “No,”  _ he thought back (with the patience of a goddamn  _ saint,  _ thank you very much), clinging to the new link to ignore Ling’s voice as he eagerly asked Izumi to tell the story of how she bludgeoned a Deathsong into submission with its own amber again.  _ “No, you’re not, because then people would find you and you’d get killed and I’d get executed for treason or something. Also, she’s my…”  _ He hesitated, suddenly feeling small as he stared down at his plate.

_ A crush. Unattainable. A role model. Someone I can’t be. Someone who doesn’t even like me. _

_ No one does. _

The thought was nearly crushing, and he swore softly, blinking furiously against the sudden threat of tears. Why was this so upsetting? He  _ knew  _ he didn’t have friends beside Al, and he  _ knew  _ that he was tolerated at best, forgotten at worst. He  _ knew  _ all this, and he hadn’t cared, so why the hell was he getting upset now?

_ Because you thought you’d win them over,  _ a small voice whispered, and he took a bite of the chicken. It tasted like ash in his mouth, but he swallowed anyway.  _ You thought you’d kill the Night Fury and they’d all love you or at least treat you like one of them, but then you didn’t and now you’re friends with him and any hope of that is gone. _

“Ed?”

He jerked his head up, eyes wide as Al nudged him. His little brother blinked worriedly at him, a surprisingly timid hand hovering an inch from his shoulder, his voice kept low-- _ probably so he doesn’t disturb the others,  _ he thought dully, though he couldn’t help but be grateful for it. He didn’t want to draw more attention to himself than he had to. 

“You’ve been zoning out a lot,” Al pointed out softly, drawing him out of his musings. “You okay?”

He couldn’t help feeling a flicker of relief at the words--sure, Al was starting to leave him behind, but he wasn’t gone yet. He didn’t hate him yet. “Yeah, just--shaken up after that last class.” It wasn’t a lie. It had been a shitty class, made shittier by nearly dying for the third time in as many days. It was just a tiny piece of what made this day so… _ weird. _

Not like he could tell Al the truth, though. How would that even go down?  _ Hey, I feel like you’re abandoning me and I know it’s going to happen eventually but I’m kind of scared of being left behind! Also, I actually shot down the Night Fury and let it go, only it can’t fly and now it’s trapped in a really nice cove, only it’s lonely and upset and wants a friend and also it’s a he and his name is Roy. Plus some crazy magic thing happened and now I can talk telepathically to him and realized I have no human friends! So yeah, that was my Thursday, how’s yours? _

Yeah. Hell fucking no. 

Al’s eyes softened, no trace of the ice from two nights ago in his gaze as he squeezed his shoulder. Ed tried not to stiffen at the contact and hated himself for it, even as Roy warbled curiously in his mind, pestering him with questions about “ _ Littermate?”.  _ This was his  _ brother.  _ He’d known him since he was  _ born. Why can’t I just get over--all of this?  _ “Wanna talk about it when we get back?”

_ You wouldn’t believe me if I did.  _ “Nah, I’ll be fine. I just need to get better, y’know?” He offered him a wry smile, and Al snorted in amusement. “I think you were right, though. I’m not cut out for this.” For once, the admission didn’t hurt, if only because a pulse of pride ran through the bond. 

Al grimaced, looking guilty, and Ed sighed. “Oh, come on, stop with the face. You know I’m not--you know I don’t work the same way. I can’t chop off arms and legs and heads and stuff.” He nudged him with his metal hand, grinning. “I’m more likely to get ‘em chopped off.”

His grimace faded to a rueful smile, even as Roy snarled,  _ “When I find the dragon who did that--” _

_ “Roy, shut up!” _

“I mean, apparently it’s the wings and the tails you’re supposed to go for,” Al pointed out with a faint smile. “If our new instructor is to be believed, at least, which I suspect she is.”

Ed rolled his eyes. “She’s the Hand of the Chief, Al, ‘course she is.” Plus, she’d taught him since childhood, so he knew damn well that she only taught the truth-- _ what she believes is the truth,  _ he caught himself thinking, mind drifting to the memory of a Night Fury trying to mimic his drawings. “...Why do we go for the wings and tails, though? Just out of curiosity.”

Al elbowed him with a laugh. “Seriously, were you listening to anything she said?”  _ No, not really, I was just talking to the unholy offspring of lightning and death itself through my mind! Sorry if I seem distracted!  _ “You go for the wings and tail because then they can’t fly. And if they can’t fly, they can’t get away.” His brother’s eyes glinted with a strange, devious light, and Ed… 

Ed was almost  _ scared  _ as Al said, “A  _ downed  _ dragon is a  _ dead  _ dragon.”

A downed dragon. Like Roy--who was trapped in a cove on an island full of bloodthirsty Vikings, without the high ground or the advantage of flight. Roy couldn’t get away if Ed slipped up and accidentally clued someone in to the fact that the Night Fury was not only alive, but his sort-of friend. 

He’d been friends with him for all of three hours and already he’d put him in mortal danger.  _ Again.  _ Without two tailfins, he couldn’t fly, but limbs and wings and fins, they didn’t grow back. He knew that better than anyone.

But…

_ But they can be rebuilt. _

“I’m gonna turn in,” he murmured to his brother, giving him a quick one-armed hug before getting to his feet, setting his plate aside. Ideas were taking shape in his head, swirling dark lines and shapes, quantities of metal and leather and the simmering heat of the forge, and he wanted to get down there before it gets too late. He had a prosthetic to build.

_ “Roy,”  _ he said as he hurried down from the watchtower they’d been eating in.  _ “I think I can help you fly again.” _

He didn’t notice a curious pair of bronze eyes tracking him--or the icy blue gaze fixed on his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the record, I love Winry, and this characterization of her isn't an attempt to villainize her. Her treatment of Ed when her parents died stems from grief and rage and a desperation for someone to blame. Eventually her anger shifted to the dragons, but she never knew how to apologize and Ed is convinced that she hates him like everyone else. Poor kids.  
> Roy also doesn't speak as "well" as he does in canon because...dragons. They communicate with images and senses and flashes of emotion, along with body language, rather than words, and Roy still primarily uses those.
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it! Sorry again for the slow updates; leave a comment and a kudos if you liked it, and I'll see you next update.


End file.
